


Exfiltration

by Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Kink, Consent, Dom/sub, M/M, Romance, Subdrop, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, a Double O's missions require complete communications blackouts -- such as when 007 is infiltrating a paranoid ring of international human traffickers. So when Bond's inside contact turns up dead, Q has to find another way to deliver the exfiltration notice to him.</p><p>Personally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badwolfbadwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/gifts).



> This plot bunny has been lurking in my to-be-written folder since December, 2012. Badwolfbadwolff reminded me that it existed, and I realized that it was finally ready to actually be written.
> 
> Thanks as always to my wonderful betas and cheerleaders. They are, in alphabetical order, Jennybel75, Rayvanfox, and stephrc79. And long-overdue thanks to cousincecily, who was there for me during that very first conversation.

“Q!” The office door slammed open hard enough to rattle the glass wall despite the hydraulic hinges.

Startled, Q held up a hand, saying, “Calm —”

“Bond’s been compromised.” TJ didn’t stop running until he hit Q’s desk.

Q looked back down at his computer, pulling up Bond’s current mission file. “Elaborate, please,” he said calmly, looking over the summary.

Human trafficking ring, male and female victims, primarily well-educated Europeans and Americans in their twenties. The victims were sold not to brothels nor as labourers but to private buyers, with a guarantee that they’d never talk. Never try to escape.

TJ took a deep breath. “His contact’s body was just recovered. Tortured. Tongue cut out.”

Sadly, that was nothing extraordinary in Q’s experience since joining government service. “It could have been unrelated to the mission,” Q said, playing devil’s advocate, even though he knew that wasn’t the case. They were never that fortunate. Most of his mind was already focused on damage control or extraction, though he knew Bond would resist abandoning the mission unless there was no other choice.

“The tongue...” TJ shuddered. “He talked, Q. They know it.”

“Did you send word — Oh,” Q said, frowning. Full comms blackout. Bond, idiot that he was, had notified HQ that he’d be going in dark. They were back to 1980s spycraft, with message notifications delivered not via email or secure radio but by dead drop.

“I’ve got the Americans on hold,” TJ offered.

Q huffed, clicking through the mission file to skim each document. “If you recall, two FBI agents were on the CIA’s list of involved suspects. We’ll have to... to contact...” His finger froze as he stared at his own photo, and he vaguely recalled signing off permission for MI6 to use his likeness in background paperwork for missions.

Staring at the monitor, Q didn’t hear whatever TJ said next. The background document for the photo explained that ‘Ethan Davies’ had been taken a year short of graduating Cambridge, sold, and trained to obedience as a sexual companion by ‘Rhys Sterling’. Bond’s cover identity.

“Shit,” Q whispered, realising there was only one way to guarantee that Bond received the exfiltration order.

 

~~~

 

Thirteen hours later, trembling from the caffeine and Xanax warring in his system, Q stood in front of a muscular woman who looked like she tortured small animals for fun. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up on her shoes, but the odds weren’t good.

He focused instead on not twitching at the hard press of metal against his chest. Just his luck, she had a suppressor on her gun, and while a suppressor wouldn’t make a gunshot truly _silent_ , it would muffle the sound enough that she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“It’s confidential, ma’am,” he answered, looking down at his feet. Nobody had briefed him on how he was supposed to behave, and he had zero training in undercover work — and even less in _this_.

The gun smacked against the underside of his chin, jerking his head up. He met her eyes, and he might have flinched, except he’d spent the last three years of his life staring down budgetary and oversight committees, assassins, and the bloody PM himself, on one occasion.

“That’s an order,” she snapped as if daring her to defy him.

“And it’s confidential by my master’s order,” he countered. That was a good touch, he suspected, using ‘master’ instead of Bond’s cover name.

Maybe it worked, or maybe she got sick of standing on the front porch, arguing. She caught him by one arm and dragged him into the foyer. A trained field agent would have probably noticed things like windows and weapons; all Q saw were the security cameras _everywhere_.

Then his back hit the wall, and the woman gave one last threatening press of the gun, hard enough to bruise his jaw. “Don’t move. Don’t even breathe,” she warned. Then she turned and looked up at the camera, barking out, “Watch him!” as she marched away.

 _Fuck_.

Q took a deep breath, skin crawling with the awareness that the enemy was watching him over those cameras, probably even listening through concealed mics. He couldn’t drop his act for an instant, but he had no idea how he was supposed to be acting right now.

On the plane, he’d distracted himself by reviewing every scant bit of information in the case file. MI6 had one single video of a victim rescued three months ago, when the mission had been given a green light. Instead of gratitude for her rescue, the victim had tearfully begged to be sent back to her owner.

So Q stood there, wondering if he should’ve notified _someone_ of what he was doing, but whom? This mission was a disaster of red tape. International human trafficking ring, possible FBI involvement in the American branch, CIA investigation with MI6 assistance... At this point, Q was more likely to get help from Mars than any government-sanctioned organisation.

“Ethan?”

The name — _his_ name — was delivered with sharp anger, but the familiar voice made Q shake in relief. He turned and saw Bond, and the sight made his stomach flip for all the wrong reasons.

Since joining MI6, Q had seen Bond in a hundred different guises, from homeless filth to bespoke dinner suits and everything in between, but he’d never imagined _this_. The sinfully tight black T-shirt would’ve been enough to stop traffic, and that was without factoring in the black leather trousers that hugged his body from hips to calves before disappearing into black boots. Even his gloves were black leather and should have looked ridiculous but didn’t.

Bond stalked towards him with casual threat, a predator debating a late-night snack. He lifted a hand and stroked leather-covered fingers over Q’s hair. Then his fingers clenched, tight but not painful, and he pushed down. Q’s knees hit the floor with bone-jarring force, and fear spiked through him at the thought that maybe _Bond_ had been compromised.

No, he told himself, taking a shaky breath. This was an act. This _had_ to be an act. They were being watched. Bloody cameras.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Bond demanded.

In the two hours between TJ’s notification and Q’s departure for the airport, his entire team had brainstormed sketchy, hopefully-acceptable reasons for ‘Ethan’ to go to ‘Rhys’ without permission — everything from Q’s desperate loneliness to Q notifying Bond of a family emergency. It was too suspicious, though, for Q to show up with a tailor-made excuse for Bond to make contact with the outside world.

“I’ve completed preliminary development of the updated encryption protocols, master. Your orders were to notify you as soon as I was finished,” Q said, trying to sound calm and mostly failing. Bond still had his hand in Q’s hair, and Q had no idea what to do with _his_ hands, and this was an _absolutely bloody terrible idea_. They should’ve just hit the mansion with an RPG and let Bond find his way out of the burning wreckage. He’d done that sort of thing before.

Bond’s hand relaxed, and Q dropped down to sit on his heels. Laughing softly, Bond petted Q’s hair and said, in a growl that turned from angry to sensual, “And you couldn’t resist the excuse to come find me, could you, pet? Did you miss me that much?”

Q vowed that he’d find a way to destroy the cameras and any recordings, even if it was the last thing he ever did. “Yes, master,” he said, knowing his face had gone bright red. He stared down at Bond’s boots, reminding himself that this was almost over. Even if Q hadn’t passed any sort of secret code, Bond would understand that the mission was at an end. Q’s presence here was message enough.

Laughing, Bond ruffled Q’s hair and abruptly turned. “Come along, pet,” he said absently, walking off.

Startled — no, _panicked_ — Q scrambled to his feet. He wanted to run the other way, out the door, to the relative safety of the rural Connecticut night, but he knew he’d never make it off the property. With no chance of escaping, he rushed after Bond instead, even more panicked at the idea of being out of his sight. Out of his _protection_.

Before Bond reached the foot of the grand staircase, another guard, this one male, stepped out of a side room. “Sir. He has to be searched,” the guard said politely, though he rested a hand on the gun holstered at his hip.

Bond huffed in annoyance and turned to look at Q. With no established code words or signals to let Bond know that it was safe — that Q hadn’t brought anything potentially compromising in his pockets — Q simply looked back down at the floor, waiting.

“Strip.”

Q couldn’t hide his surprise. He looked up at Bond, whose eyes narrowed dangerously.

Hands shaking, Q pulled off his overcoat. In the breast pocket, he had a wallet with mixed US and UK currency, a train ticket stub showing he’d travelled from Manhattan to Connecticut, and a UK driver’s licence in the name of Ethan Davies. He held out the coat to the guard, who snatched it away and dropped it on the floor.

Q looked desperately to Bond for rescue, but all he saw was cold expectation. He really did expect Q to take off his clothes right here, in front of the cameras and this guard and Bond himself.

Heart racing, Q nearly knocked off his glasses as he pulled off his jumper. Hair crackling with static, he dropped the jumper on the floor, reminding himself that he’d had to strip in public before. But there was a very, very distinct difference between stripping for a HAZMAT team after a toxic chemical release in one of his own labs and... _this_.

 

~~~

 

Q closed his eyes, finding unimaginable comfort in the feel of Bond’s gloved hand brushing over his face. In keeping with his young, vulnerable appearance, Q had shaved before leaving the Connecticut safehouse — hotel room, really — that TJ had set up. The touch of leather on sensitive, smooth skin made Q shiver.

When Bond’s fingertips skimmed over the bruise on Q’s jaw, Q couldn’t help but flinch. Gently, Bond lifted Q’s chin. “What happened?”

“A woman — one of the guards,” Q whispered over the rustling sound of his clothes being searched. “Her gun —”

Bond turned his glare on the guard, anger making his eyes blaze. “Search that later,” he ordered, sliding his hand to the back of Q’s neck. A tug brought Q close against his body, and it was the most natural thing in the world for Q to put his arms around Bond. He turned his head so his glasses — which he’d been allowed to keep — stayed in place and closed his eyes, feeling absurdly safer like this.

“The rules —”

“Bugger your damned rules,” Bond snapped. “No one touches what’s mine. Fetch me a collar and lead. Let’s not have any question as to who my pet belongs to.”

Shocked, Q tensed and nearly pulled away. He wouldn’t. He _wouldn’t_.

More gently, Bond said, “I know I’ve ordered you not to touch your collar at home, but this one time, you should have put it on.”

Q knew that Bond was giving him information — telling him that a collar was normal or expected, something that should be familiar. He nodded, still holding tightly to Bond, and wondered how he could ask just how long he was supposed to keep up this act.

Unexpectedly, Bond caught the back of Q’s hair and pulled, forcing Q a step back. When their eyes met, Bond said, “I’ve taught you better, Ethan. Acknowledge.”

Standard MI6 procedure on comms. Verbal confirmation. ‘Acknowledged’ nearly slipped out before Q realised military language would hardly be appropriate. “Yes, master,” he said instead, feeling his face go hot all over again. It was one thing to refer to Bond that way to others, as part of their cover story. To say it now, caught in Bond’s arms, looking into his eyes... it was too intimate. Too _real_.

And when Bond pulled him close again, quietly saying, “That’s better, pet,” Q felt a terrible, disorienting sense of satisfaction at the praise.

 

~~~

 

Q thrived under pressure. He was known for being able to handle any crisis with absolute calm logic to the point where his staff whispered that he was part Vulcan. And as stressful situations went, this was _almost_ uneventful, or so Q would have thought. At least no one had a gun to his head. No radiation alarms were going off. No one was dousing him with chemical-absorbing foam and discussing lethal exposure levels.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the little tremors that racked his body. He couldn’t slow his breathing. And every time he heard the gunshot-sharp sound of a whip cracking, he flinched, even though he wasn’t the target.

He was perhaps in the _safest_ position possible, in fact, kneeling naked on the floor in a corner of a too-large, too crowded room. Bond sat beside him, stroking his hair with one hand; in the other, he held the taut chain lead connected to the leather collar buckled around Q’s throat. Any time someone came too close, Bond sat forward in his chair, using his body to block any sight of Q — and any view Q might have of the room beyond.

Not that Q was interested in looking. He’d seen more than enough when Bond had led him in. The room was a dungeon right out of a B-grade middle ages movie, only with screams of pain that were all too real. Q had no idea if this was how the human traffickers broke their victims or if this was just a party; he was grateful that Bond apparently had established his cover identity well enough to keep them both protected and untouched.

Despite being in America, the human traffickers were an international group. Of all things, French seemed to be the primary language spoken here, and Q cursed the decision he’d made long ago to study Arabic, Russian, and Chinese, thinking they’d be more useful in government service.

The chain lead rattled as Bond sat up again, hand going still in Q’s hair. Q opened his eyes and saw a woman’s pale, filthy feet and slender ankles in front of another person, this one in black boots and denim, most likely male. Curious, Q wanted to look up, but every time he moved his head, the lead chimed like a bloody bell, and the last thing he wanted to do was to draw attention.

“So he’s why you left this pretty little thing. You do like the fragile ones, don’t you?”

Bond laughed coldly, nearly drowning out the sound of the woman’s startled gasp as she was shoved down to her knees. Q darted a look at her, and his stomach flipped in horror. According to the organisation’s profile she was probably at least twenty, but her wide-eyed fear made her seem that much younger. Her face was bruised and streaked with tears, her bare skin striped with welts and spotted with blood, and she was shaking violently.

“To each his own,” Bond said, possessively ruffling Q’s hair before he pushed Q’s head back down.

“I kept an eye on her for you, but I couldn’t get through to her either. She still won’t behave. Did you want another shot at her?”

“Actually, I was thinking of taking this one” — Bond tugged on Q’s leash, making him gasp in surprise — “somewhere private. She’s all yours.”

When the woman let out a cut-off whimper, the other man laughed coldly. “Thanks.”

Bond’s hand relaxed against Q’s head. He leaned over and said, “You’d best not be too tired to please me tonight, pet. Did your trip up here exhaust you?”

Q flinched instinctively before recognising that Bond was giving him a way out — a way to say no to him. But if he did, what would Bond be expected to do?

Only then did the reality of the situation hit Q like a bullet. MI6 sent Bond out not just to end lives on command but to become a monster so he could blend in with other monsters and hunt them from the inside. The woman had been _afraid_ of Bond — Q had seen as much in one glimpse. What the hell had he done to her?

She was innocent. She had no idea that Bond was here to stop all this. Q shook his head, eyes closed tightly, and said, “No, master. Please —” He faltered, not knowing what he was asking for. He swallowed, heart in his throat. “Please, let me try.”

 

~~~

 

Bond’s guest room, up on the second floor, was the sort of luxuriously appointed room that Q imagined was found only in very specialised fetish hotels. Tugged inside by the lead that Bond never released, Q looked around just long enough to note the bed that dominated the room, a bed adorned with black iron posts and chains ending in leather cuffs.

Bond either couldn’t lock the door or didn’t bother. Really, there was no point in trying for privacy, because even here there were cameras. Q saw two of them, pointed right at the damned bed, and he knew that there was no respite.

With a few deft twists, Bond wrapped the lead around his hand. He shoved Q back into the wall  and bit his earlobe gently. Hidden behind Q’s back, one finger, still gloved, swiped a short, deliberate line across his skin. As Bond tugged on Q’s ear, he swiped another line, and then a third.

“Arms around me,” Bond said, and drew another line, followed by a sharp poke — and then another line.

 _Morse code,_ Q thought, heart leaping. He wrapped his arms around Bond, letting his head fall back as Bond moved from his ear to his throat. His mouth was gentle, soothing, lips pressed over Q’s racing pulse. Two more dots. Two lines. Two dots.

_OK?_

Q exhaled sharply, once. It wasn’t Morse, but in silent mode, MI6 comms used one for yes, two for no, three for further explanation required.

Bond backed away, smiling at Q. His hand dropped to Q’s arse, crushing their bodies close — and the leather trousers were far too tight for Q to not notice the erection pressed against his bare flesh. “It’s been too long since I’ve had you anywhere but at home,” he said, using the lead to pull Q away from the wall. “I need to travel with you more often.”

Q had no idea how to respond to that, but he was saved from having to try. Bond kissed him as if trying to steal his breath, driving any hope of rational thought out of Q’s mind. After the terror of the last hour or two or however long it had been, the kiss was a relief, an anchor in all this insanity, because Bond was _good_ at it. Unthinkably, unreasonably good. Much, much better than the one other man Q had ever snogged, and that on a drunken dare at uni.

The kiss broke all too soon, and Bond dropped the loops of chain wrapped around his fist. He reached for the collar, but instead of unbuckling it, he just unlatched the lead and tossed it aside. “Or maybe we should skip this until breakfast,” Bond said, making a show of suppressing a yawn. He turned away and gestured to a side door, saying, “Go start the shower. Then come back and help me undress.”

Q stood in the foyer for a moment, shivering at the loss of Bond’s warmth and strength, before he realised this was another offered escape. Would Bond have done this if he’d been forced by his role to choose someone else to come upstairs with him? Probably, Q thought, heading for the bathroom.

“Ethan.”

Flinching at the sharp tone, Q looked back at Bond, who was standing near the foot of the bed.

“Acknowledge my commands, Ethan,” Bond said, his quiet tone heavy with unspoken threat.

Reminding himself that they were most likely under observation, Q went to where Bond was standing near the foot of the bed. As gracefully as possible, Q knelt down and looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, master.”

Bond didn’t immediately respond, and Q didn’t dare look up for a hint of what was expected. Roleplay and BDSM had never been Q’s fetishes, but he hadn’t survived uni in a vacuum. After another moment’s hesitation, Q leaned forward, braced his hands on the floor, and touched his lips to Bond’s boot.

“Better,” Bond said, the anger gone from his voice. “Now, go start the shower.”

 

~~~

 

Ask anyone at MI6, and they would universally say James Bond was too damned attractive for anyone’s good. The man had seduced his way across every continent, Antarctica included according to one rumour. And while Q had always known intellectually that he was handsome enough, with those eyes and a body sculpted not in the gym but out in the field, he’d never experienced the full impact of Bond’s charisma until now.

Leaning back in the armchair, Bond lifted his booted foot and casually asked, “How long until you can implement the upgraded encryption on our email servers?”

Grateful for the distraction, Q took hold of the boot at the heel and toe and worked it free of Bond’s foot. “Under two weeks,” Q said, before remembering to add, “master.” He put the boot next to where he was kneeling.

Bond lifted his other foot. “Any employee training required?”

“No, master. The encryption is invisible to the users.” As he took off the other boot, he couldn’t help but add, “It’s safer than expecting any employees to willingly attend a training seminar.”

Bond laughed, rich and full of humour and comfortingly familiar. He nudged Q’s hands with his foot, grinning. “Just for that, I might make _you_ run the employee training programme.”

Q grinned back, playfully answering, “Do I have your permission to use a Taser on anyone who doesn’t pay attention?”

Another nudge. Bond’s grin brightened. “We’ll see. I’ve been wanting to replace some of our accounting staff.”

Feeling much better, as if they might just survive this hellish mission after all, Q stripped off Bond’s socks and dropped them aside. When he looked back up, Bond made a beckoning motion with his fingers. Q knelt up against the chair, abruptly aware that he was between Bond’s spread legs. He braced his hands on Bond’s knees, feeling the body-warm leather, and slid his hands up onto Bond’s thighs.

Bond lifted his finger and touched Q’s lower lip. Gentle pressure made Q open his mouth, and he closed his eyes, letting his tongue touch Bond’s glove.

“The first time I saw you, all I could think was of kissing you,” Bond said quietly.

Q wanted to ask if he meant that or if it was part of the act. Instead, he licked Bond’s fingertip again, tasting the smooth, warm leather. Bond moved his thumb to rub over Q’s jaw, avoiding the bruise, and Q shivered again.

“I take it you like the gloves?” Bond sat forward and lifted his other hand, dragging his fingertips over Q’s shoulder. He lowered his voice, quietly saying, “I bought them to use on you, you know. Tie you to the foot of the bed so you couldn’t move, arms up over your head, legs spread, fully exposed to whatever I might want to do. Feeling me touching you, through the gloves, petting you until you begged for more.”

“Oh, fuck.” The whisper slipped out as Q’s hands clenched. He was abruptly, achingly hard at the thought of being the focus of such single-minded attention.

Bond laughed and leaned down, body heat searing against Q’s bare skin. “Would you like that, pet?” he whispered, covering Q’s mouth with his fingers.

Eyes closed, Q nodded.

Once.

Bond turned and kissed Q’s temple before he lowered his hands. “Shirt next.”

Entirely too distracted by the mental images Bond had created, Q stared at him before remembering what they were doing — and that they were being watched. The knowledge of those cameras hit him more effectively than a bucket of ice water, and his hands didn’t shake when he reached for Bond’s shirt. He tugged it up and off, baring a scarred, muscular chest.

Bond stood without warning, and Q sat back on his heels, looking up, conscious of the unfamiliar collar around his throat. Bond ruffled his hair and said, “Go on.”

Q wanted to back up, but Bond’s hand held him in place. Instead, he reached up to unbutton the waistband and draw down the zip, thinking this was more than he’d ever done with another man. Maybe not more than he’d ever _thought_ , but imagination and practice were two very different things.

He pulled the leather aside, revealing short-trimmed hair, dark gold and loosely curled. Bond’s cock was hard, which Q decided to take as a compliment — and tried not to find intimidating. He couldn’t resist touching, pressing with his fingertips as he dragged up from the base, feeling the slip of soft skin over hardness beneath.

Bond’s breath caught. Hitched. His hand twisted in Q’s hair.

Encouraged, Q slid his fingers lightly back down, imagining how this would feel for himself. He circled his fingers around the base and dragged up again, trying to find just the right pressure to make Bond see stars.

“Fuck,” Bond whispered, giving Q’s hair a sharp tug. “Getting distracted, pet?”

Q was tempted to keep playing, but he didn’t know how Bond would have to respond. “I’m sorry, master,” he said, though he couldn’t make it sound genuinely contrite. He went back to working the tight leather trousers down over Bond’s hips, down his legs, and off each foot, one at a time. He ran his hands back up Bond’s legs, feeling soft hair over solid muscle, and looked up, thinking that Bond really was unfairly gorgeous by anyone’s standards.

Bond held out his hands. “Put the gloves on the bed, for later.”

Another tremor shot through Q’s body. He didn’t know if he could go through with this — not in front of cameras and people watching, people who thought Bond was a vicious human trafficker and Q his trained slave — but he trusted that Bond would give him a chance to refuse, however subtly.

For now, he took off both gloves, clenching his hands around the soft leather. He rose only when he felt steady and calm enough to walk to the bed. The cuffs and chains drew his eye. When he imagined himself standing there at the foot of the bed, arms and legs splayed out, he felt an undeniable thrill of arousal.

Staring at the cuffs, he saw how he could have deceived himself or made excuses for what he was about to do. Anything he did to play out his role would serve only to help solidify Bond’s cover story, perhaps enough to overcome any damage done by the discovery and interrogation of his now-dead contact.

But this was no longer just about ‘Ethan’ and ‘Rhys’. Bond’s arousal had been real. The way he cared for Q, guiding him through this minefield, had been real. And Q suspected that even his words — _“The first time I saw you, all I could think was of kissing you.”_ — had been real.

So this, Q decided... This would be real, too.


	2. Chapter 2

After all this time in Q Branch, Q knew precisely the effects of moisture on audio pickups. Unfortunately, it took more than running water to guarantee privacy for a conversation, but soft whispers were an acceptable risk.

Under the cover of soap and steam, bodies pressed close together in the spacious shower, Q whispered, “Exfil.”

Bond hummed once, rubbing his hands everywhere over Q’s body in sweeping strokes that would look possessive to the cameras, though Q hadn’t seen any openly mounted here. There might not be cameras, he thought — even human traffickers might want privacy on the toilet, after all — but he wasn’t going to take any risks.

“Plan?” Q dared to ask as he licked Bond’s ear and was rewarded with a shiver.

Two quiet grunts. No plan.

Not that the lack of a plan had ever stopped Bond, Q knew, and couldn’t quite hide a flinch at the thought of being caught up in the mayhem that was sure to follow.

“Shh, pet,” Bond said, locking one arm around Q’s back. He dragged his other hand around Q’s side, down to his hip, and further down, between their bodies. The touch of callused, unfamiliar fingers on Q’s cock made him bite down on a gasp. “I’ve got you.”

Q tried to come up with a witty response, but the best he could do was a strangled moan as Bond’s hand, slick with soap, stroked up his length. He’d gone a bit soft at the thought of how they’d manage their escape. Now, though, reality shattered under the force of Bond’s demanding desire.

Bond’s hand barely moved, fingers rustling in Q’s hair, brushing against his balls. He leaned in and nipped at Q’s throat before saying, “As much as I enjoy being able to bite you, I think I rather prefer you in a collar. _My_ collar.”

The possessive tone left Q dizzy. He nodded, not even trying to find his voice, and thrust his hips, silently pleading for more.

Bond pulled his hand away and laughed when Q groaned in protest. “If I let you beg tonight, pet, what would you beg for?” he asked, spinning Q around. He shoved Q against the cool marble wall, trapping Q with his body. His cock fitted perfectly against the upper curve of Q’s arse, hard and hot. “Would you hold back and not come, no matter what I did? Wait until I gave you permission, working you with my hand? My mouth?”

Q’s fingers scratched at the wall. He closed his eyes, trying to remind himself that this was a negotiation of sorts — that Bond was trying, with the knowledge of eavesdroppers, to gain his permission to continue the charade.

“Would you try to bargain with me? Offer what’s already mine?” Bond asked, one hand sweeping low on Q’s belly, just brushing his cock, the other one teasing over Q’s lips. “Your mouth, your arse. You know they’re both mine,” Bond said, nipping at the side of Q’s neck, “but would you beg me to use one over the other?”

“Anything,” Q whispered, an electric thrill of desire sweeping through him at the thought of Bond’s cock _inside_ him. It would hurt, he knew, but he wanted it — wanted that closeness, wanted to feel Bond on top of him and around him and even inside him.

He knew by the sudden stillness that he’d caught Bond by surprise. “Anything?” Bond asked, giving Q’s chest a single, deliberate tap.

Q moaned in response and pushed his arse back against Bond’s cock.

Once.

 

~~~

 

There were locks on the cuffs. Standing at the foot of the bed, one arm stretched up towards the top of the heavy iron post, Q could just barely see the locking mechanisms, slightly fuzzy without his glasses. He felt a moment of panic as Bond buckled the first cuff around his right wrist. Bond didn’t actually lock them in place, but the fact that there were locks at all — and the fact that Q couldn’t possibly reach the buckles — nearly made Q panic all over again.

He was positive his body language hadn’t betrayed his thoughts, but somehow Bond must have known. Instead of going for Q’s left wrist, he put his arms around Q’s body and pulled him close, nuzzling at his throat. “I may be too tired for this after all.”

 _No_ nearly slipped out, but even Q, who’d never so much as looked at a fetish website, knew better than to say ‘no’ where they’d be overheard. “Please, master,” he said instead, deliberately arching his back to press against Bond.

Bond’s arm tensed. When he let go, it wasn’t to release Q’s right wrist but to cuff his left. Standing between the two bedposts, with his knees pressed against the foot of the mattress, Q tried not to give in to the panic. He took a shaky breath, closed his eyes, and let his head fall forward. He wanted this. He wanted this somewhere safe, somewhere without cameras or criminals or people who would happily torture and kill two agents of MI6. But most of all, he wanted this closeness that Bond offered — this new experience.

He had to find his balance when Bond spread his ankles to cuff them apart, and then had to find it again when Bond stepped up onto the frame of the bed so he could tighten the chains running to Q’s wrists, far out of reach. He didn’t quite pull Q up to his toes, but it was close, and Q could feel the tense stretch through his whole body.

When Bond moved close behind Q again, Q could barely push back against him. Only then did he realise how exposed he was — how vulnerable — and he shivered hard, skin prickling up under the chill that swept through him.

“Shh,” Bond whispered against Q’s hair. “You’re gorgeous like this, pet. I could just look at you like this for hours.”

Q bit his lip and huffed out two fast breaths, hoping like hell that Bond wouldn’t think he was sparing Q by _not_ carrying on.

With a soft laugh, Bond nipped at Q’s throat. “Your heart’s racing. It wouldn’t take much for me to make you come, would it?”

The thought pushed Q from half-hard to all the way. “Please,” he whispered, barely aware that he was speaking. “Master —”

“Shh. We’re almost ready to start.” Bond ran a hand down Q’s body again, brushing through his hair and down the inside of one thigh.

 _To start?_ Q thought incredulously.

“I want you to concentrate on me, pet. Only me.” Bond nipped gently at Q’s throat. “I’m going to put the collar back on you. I want you thinking only of me. You’re _mine_ , pet. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Q breathed, leaning back against Bond’s body as best he could without openly fighting the chains. When Bond gave a questioning little hum, Q quickly said, “Yes, master.”

Bond laughed, breath ghosting over the side of Q’s face. “I think a blindfold will help you concentrate. Don’t you?”

Panic stabbed through Q, but only for an instant. He didn’t want to be even more helpless — but he also did. And maybe if he couldn’t _see_ the cameras, he could forget about them. That was probably the reason for Bond’s suggestion.

Q nodded, and this time, “Yes, master,” came out more calmly.

After one last kiss, Bond left Q, going first to the bathroom and then to one of the bedside tables. He came back to Q holding the leather collar and what looked like a sleep mask with too many straps. “I should keep you like this all the time,” Bond said, resting the sleep mask on Q’s shoulder so he could slide the collar around his neck with both hands, his movements slow and gentle. “You are absolutely gorgeous.”

Thinking Bond was being a little too obvious in his role, Q turned to protest, only to have Bond catch hold of Q’s hair and tug his head sharply back.

“No more talking,” Bond warned, pushing a finger deliberately against Q’s collarbone twice. “Don’t make me gag that mouth before I’ve decided if I want it tonight.”

Q closed his eyes and nodded, nearly dislodging the still-open collar. He still had their code. One for yes, two for no, three for... well, it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t elaborate with all the surveillance present. One and two would be good enough.

Bond let the seconds stretch out in silence. Then, with another kiss, he said, “Very good, pet,” and another shiver went through Q’s body, all the way to his toes, at the praise.

 

~~~

 

“Easy. I have you, pet.”

Boneless and trembling, Q staggered and nearly fell despite Bond’s arms wrapped around him. Leather-gloved fingers stroked down over Q’s abdomen. The hardness of Bond’s cock pressed against his arse — and his own cock, untouched and neglected — made him whimper and try to turn around, but Bond’s arms tightened.

“No, pet. Bed, first.”

Another time, Q would have been embarrassed at the noise of protest that he made. Now, he just clung to Bond’s arms and let Bond half-carry him around to the side of the bed. A push made him fall onto his back; Bond went down with him, taking hold of Q’s face to guide him into a deep kiss. Trapped under Bond’s strong, powerful body, Q whimpered again, scratching at Bond’s back.

“Please —”

“Shh,” Bond whispered against Q’s mouth. “I have you. No talking.”

Q clenched his teeth and let his head fall back, eyes squeezed tightly shut beneath the blindfold pressing against his face. He moved, trying to rub the straps away, but they were linked together, one behind his neck, the other higher up, joined by another strap that kept the blindfold fixed in place. Apparently Bond was taking no chances. He was good at this — too fucking good. He’d torn down Q’s resistance with nothing more than gentle touches, not even skin-to-skin thanks to those damned gloves.

Bond kissed down Q’s jaw to his throat, where he nudged the collar up so he could bite right above Q’s shoulder, teeth digging slowly into the muscle. Q let out a cry and arched up into the bite, short fingernails catching on Bond’s skin.

Laughing, Bond said, “Move up, pet. Under the covers.” He guided Q up the bed, tugging at the duvet, until they lay side-by-side, wrapped in soft sheets. Q rolled onto his side, trapping one of Bond’s legs between his, and combed his fingers through Bond’s short, neat hair. As Q kissed and licked at Bond’s throat, Bond softly said, “You’ve been good, pet. Very good.”

There was no reason at all that those words should have filled Q with tingling warmth. He buried his face against Bond’s neck, and only the no-talking command kept him from actually saying _thank you_.

Bond rubbed his gloved hand down Q’s back in long, soothing strokes. “If I let you ask for one thing, what would it be?”

“You. Please, you. Inside me,” Q whispered, the words coming out in a rush.

For an instant, Bond stilled. Then he twisted, rolling Q onto his back, trapping Q beneath him once more. “Be very good for me, and I’ll let you come,” he said, brushing Q’s lips with his own.

Q bit his lip, trying not to thrust up against Bond’s body. The feel of Bond’s cock against his own had already lit fireworks behind Q’s closed eyes, threatening to strip away the last of his self-control. Above him, Bond twisted and reached to the side, and Q heard something rattling. Once, in another life, Q had prided himself on being able to visualise almost any scenario with nothing more than the sounds picked up by an earwig’s audio feed; now, he had no bloody idea what Bond was doing.

Then he felt a hand — bare skin now, slick and cool — work between their bodies, and he let out a desperate, needy cry at delicious pressure around his cock, with just the right friction. Two strokes turned his blood to fire. When Bond moved his hand away, Q begged, “No, please. Please, don’t stop —”

“‘Master’,” Bond said sharply.

For an instant, the haze cleared from Q’s mind, like a hard drive hitting a bad sector. Then, as Bond’s hand stroked down, Q pleaded, “Please, master. Don’t stop.”

“Good pet. Very good,” Bond encouraged, kneeling back between Q’s legs. Q lifted a hand, thoughtlessly wanting to remove the blindfold, but Bond slapped his hand back down and pressed his fingers into the sheets. Q fisted his hands, tugging the soft fabric up between his fingers.

Bond’s fingers pressed behind Q’s balls, making Q’s hips buck up off the mattress. He was _so damned hard_ , he needed more, but he didn’t dare move his hands. A push of Bond’s other hand got Q to bend one leg, resting his foot flat on the bed; a nudge made him do the same with the other.

“Look at you, pet,” Bond said, his voice a low growl that slipped over Q’s skin like the leather gloves that had teased at him. “It’s so bloody tempting to just fuck you like this, just to hear you scream, but you beg too beautifully. I could take all night to open you up, until you’d do anything to have me fuck you.”

Q realised then that even now, even like this, Bond was _still_ watching out for him. Still taking care of him. And in that moment, he realised this wasn’t even about sex but something else. Something like the trust that Bond had for the Quartermaster who’d sworn to always bring him home — and Q’s trust for the agent who could work miracles and who would surely get them out of this mess alive.

“Please,” Q whispered.

Bond shifted on the bed. Laid down beside him, one hand still between his legs. And as his fingertip teased down behind Q’s balls, Bond kissed him. “All right, love,” he whispered, and Q knew that this wasn’t about the mission. Not anymore.

And as Bond slowly pushed one finger into Q’s body, Q groaned and spread his legs even more, whispering, “Thank you, master.”

 

~~~

 

Early the following morning, Q knelt on the floor close to Bond’s leg, stomach churning at the thought that they were close to leaving — and that was when missions _always_ went wrong. It could be worse, though. They were both dressed, which meant running would be easier, or at least more comfortable. And though Q couldn’t understand the French half of the conversation, things seemed to be going well, at least judging by tone of voice.

“Oh. Before I forget,” Bond said, ruffling Q’s hair before he gave a tug. Obediently, Q lifted his head, and Bond reached down to get at the collar still buckled around Q’s throat.

 _“Non,”_ said one of the others, followed by a flurry of words. Something flew past Q, who couldn’t hide his flinch. Laughing, the man shoved a felted wool scarf into Bond’s hands.

Bond laughed as well and said something that sounded like agreement. He wrapped the scarf around Q’s neck, covering the collar, and then pulled Q to his feet.

And then they were moving, across the foyer, out the front door, and down to where a car was waiting, engine idling. “Passenger seat,” Bond ordered, giving Q a shove. “And be silent. I don’t want to hear one word from you until I’ve had a decent cup of coffee.”

Panic hit Q for just a moment — what had gone wrong? — before he realised the car might be bugged, maybe even rigged with cameras. So Q got into the passenger seat, put on his seatbelt, and folded his hands in his lap, reminding himself to just be glad they’d escaped at all.

They drove for an hour in silence, and though Q didn’t see Bond obviously checking the mirrors, he knew Bond was looking for anyone following them. Q scanned the dashboard, but there were too many places to hide microphones and cameras. After all, he’d done it before.

Without a GPS, Q had no idea where they were, but Bond seemed to know the roads. They passed through a small town, onto a motorway, and off again, finally pulling into the parking lot of a hotel of dubious quality.

“Out,” Bond ordered, and exited the car.

Q got out and silently followed Bond into the hotel and out a side door, noting as he went that there was only a single visible security camera aimed not at the hallway but at the registration desk across the room.

The back door led to a weed-choked car park, with a sprawling shopping centre on the other side, dominated by a massive Walmart. Bond threw a glance Q’s way, though he didn’t say anything. And Q wanted to say something — anything — but there was a chance, however small, that the enemy had put a bug or tracking device in his clothes. He’d done that before, too — or at least he’d built the devices for agents like Bond to plant.

Apparently thinking the same thing, Bond pointed towards a restaurant that sat like an island in the middle of the car park. “Go in and get us a table. Order me coffee and breakfast. Get something for yourself as well.” Before waiting for Q’s response, Bond headed for the Walmart.

God, how the _hell_ did agents do this alone? Nervously, Q went into the restaurant and asked for a private table. It was ten in the morning, and the restaurant was nearly deserted. He was shown to a massive booth in the corner, by the loos, and the hostess asked, “Coffee?”

“Two, please,” Q said, though he really wanted tea. He started to take off his jacket but stopped. He’d look ridiculous wearing a scarf but no jacket, and he was _not_ going to take off the scarf to show the collar buckled around his throat. Should he take that off as well? He’d have to go into the bathroom — he wasn’t going to risk having anyone catch a glimpse of it. But what if they were still being watched?

Finally, he decided to behave as if they were still under surveillance. Q had listened in on Bond’s comms enough to know what he generally favoured for breakfast, so he placed the order, asked the waitress to bring their food when his companion arrived, and huddled into his coat and scarf as though ill.

Twenty or thirty minutes passed, though it felt like hours, before Bond returned. Q nearly spoke before recalling the possibility of surveillance. Bond handed Q a crinkling shopping bag and pointed to the loo. Silently, Q nodded and went to change.

Bond had accurately guessed Q’s size. The blue jeans, shoes, and T-shirt fit well enough, as did the horrid, plasticky windcheater. Q packed his old clothes away in the bag and nearly left the toilet cubicle before he realised he hadn’t taken off the leather collar. He actually hesitated, though only for a moment. There was no room for sentiment here. He took it off, stuffed it into the bag, and carried everything back out to the booth.

As soon as Q sat down, Bond got up. By then, the waitress had delivered their plates, and though Q nibbled at the toast, his stomach was churning too much for him to force down anything else. He’d eat later, once he felt safe — perhaps once they were back in England, down in the security of MI6’s tunnels.

When Bond came back out, dressed as casually and cheaply as Q, he didn’t sit, nor did he touch his plate. He beckoned silently for Q to follow him to the front of the restaurant. He handed Q his bag and gestured for him to go outside. Through the window, Q watched Bond stop at the register to hand over cash for their uneaten meals.

Outside, Bond led Q around to the back of the restaurant, where he threw the bags of clothes into a reeking wheelie bin. Then he started walking quickly across the car park, leaving Q to follow him in anxious silence.

When they were at least fifty metres away, Bond quietly spoke in a flat, almost dead voice: “I’m sorry, Q. We’ll be safe soon.”

The distance between them felt like miles rather than inches. Q’s stomach lodged somewhere around his feet. “All right,” he said, his tone equally neutral.

They continued walking, saying nothing, all the way to a battered-looking car parked under a street lamp. Bond pulled a magnetic box from one of the wheel wells, opened it, and took out a key. After checking the back seat through the window, he unlocked the passenger door and held it open for Q.

“Did you set this up?” Q asked once they were both in the car.

Bond nodded. “No backup.” He started the engine, which sounded definitely worse for wear. “Do you have papers stashed somewhere? Your passport?”

“A safehouse. Hotel rooms in New Haven. I have papers for both of us, secure mobiles, and money.” Q looked at Bond, who was nearly crackling with tension. “You’re not asking why the exfiltration.”

Bond’s jaw set stubbornly. “I need to get you to safety. Everything else can wait.”


	3. Chapter 3

By regulation, field missions were to be conducted according to certain protocols — protocols the Double O’s disregarded, naturally, so Q took it upon himself to follow through. He locked and barred the hotel room door and unlocked the secure mobile as he crossed to the window. He yanked open the drapes and shivered in the cool winter sunlight. With a swipe of his finger, he dialled.

“Q?”

“Gareth.” Q closed his eyes and took a breath, feeling unsteady at hearing the familiar voice. The last twenty-four hours slipped back into a surreal fog, but reality — MI6, Q Branch, London itself — couldn’t quite pull Q into focus. He felt trapped on a knife’s edge; he’d bleed to death if he stayed here, but he was too scared to jump to either side, forward or back.

“Are you all right? What’s going on?” Gareth’s voice was tense and sharp with worry.

“We’re secure.” Q swallowed and leaned over the hot radiator, resting one hand on the icy window. “I have 007.”

Gareth let out a sigh. “Thank god. Do you need backup? I can have —”

“No,” Q interrupted. He wasn’t ready to face any of his colleagues, either from MI6 or the CIA. He wasn’t ready to face _himself_. He pulled the cheap plastic windcheater tighter around his body. “TJ and Danielle have handled everything. 007 and I are secure. We’ll be in the air in seven hours.”

Another sigh. “The Americans are taking the lead on the investigation. They’ve asked for any information you and 007 can provide.”

For a moment, Q’s old life took hold, and he wondered what the hell he could offer to their occasional allies. Then he realised he was _in the field_. He’d need to write up an after action report. Be debriefed. Go over every last excruciating detail of the mission.

No wonder why the bloody field agents avoided Psych.

“I have a secure laptop. I’ll write something up before the flight.”

“Thank you...” Gareth’s words trailed off significantly, and Q braced himself for more. “You’re not a field agent, Q. If you need support personnel —”

“There’s no need. I should have the report done before we leave to catch our flights.”

“All right, Q.”

Before Gareth could say anything else, Q rang off. Looking forward was easier than looking back. Just as soon as he was able to walk across the room to the safe, he’d get out his laptop, break into the human traffickers’ network, and erase every byte of footage from those damned security cameras. The bloody after action report could wait.

 

~~~

 

Q was fully aware of every single Double O’s post-mission routine. As an executive with a unique skillset and access to useful technology, he felt it was his duty to maintain discreet surveillance on all agents newly returned from the field. It wasn’t an intrusion of privacy — he didn’t have bloody cameras in their bedrooms, for one thing — but rather a matter of mission readiness.

Typically, once back on British soil, Bond would seek out one of three married women with whom he was conducting long-term affairs. Dinner at a Michelin-star restaurant, enough drinks to offer a measure of relaxation, and then an expensive hotel for the night. He never took them back to his flat.

Before returning home, though, Bond would rarely stay in one place for more than a half hour. He’d wander the streets, drop in at pubs or nightclubs, drive aimlessly, as if by remaining still he would be vulnerable to whatever enemy he’d been pursuing, even though the mission had ended.

Now, though, Q knew he was still next door. In the two hours it had taken for Q to brute force an attack on the trafficker’s system and wipe everything, he had been conscious of every little sound from Bond’s room. He’d listened as Bond took an unusually long shower, paced for twenty minutes like a caged lion, and finally settled down on the bed, changing the channel on the telly every thirty seconds in an endless loop of soundbites and meaningless noise.

Q knew he should try to rest. Order room service. Take a bath. Intellectually, he knew all he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours were half a piece of toast and far too much coffee, but the thought of food made him feel sick. And though he’d turned up the room’s heater as much as he could, he was still _freezing_.

Not ten minutes later, his resolve broke. He gathered up his laptop, cradling it under one arm, and went out into the hall. Though he had a keycard for Bond’s room — and an electronic bypass device in his field kit — he knocked. After what Bond had been through, he deserved his privacy.

Almost a minute passed before the locks rattled and the door opened a handspan. Bond hadn’t taken advantage of the toiletries kits the hotel had provided; the sharp line of his jaw was softened by blond stubble going to grey. Instead of looking at Q, he scanned the hallway, always alert.

Always on-mission.

Q stepped back, realising that whatever had happened between them, it didn’t _mean_ anything. It was all part of the mission for Bond. He hadn’t let it touch him. He _couldn’t_ let it touch him, or he wouldn’t have been able to do... whatever he’d done to pass as one of the human traffickers. Everything he’d done with Q was part of an act meant to keep them both safe. And that was all.

When Bond finally looked at him, Q reminded himself that they were _both_ professionals. He’d brought the computer from his room out of habit, because computers were safe. Home. Now, he took the laptop from under his arm and offered it to Bond.

“Management would like your field report as soon as possible, to pass to our American division,” he said, voice perfectly steady. “Please focus on the competitors’ organisation rather than our interdepartmental... relations,” he said, faltering at the last moment.

Bond was too well-trained at masking his thoughts to flinch, but he looked away, jaw tensing. “I won’t mention it at all,” he promised quietly.

Q nodded, and he hesitated, thinking he should say something else, in some way express his appreciation for Bond’s promised discretion. But he wasn’t the type for idle chatter, and Bond... Bond wasn’t a friend with whom he could _have_ idle chatter. So instead, he turned and went back to his room.

And as the door closed, he made it one step before he sank down against the wall, pulled his knees up to his chest, and shivered as if he were dying.

 

~~~

 

Someone was knocking.

Q lifted his head and stared at the door. It was slightly blurry, the straight lines made vaguely indistinct. Pixilation in real life. Raster graphics versus vector. Or just a lack of glasses. Where had they gone? He could see well enough without them, but he always wore them anyway. Well, not when he was asleep. And not in the shower, most of the time, though he’d been known to bring a waterproof tablet into the shower on occasion, when caught up in his work.

Someone was knocking, and... he was sitting on the floor. What the _hell_ had happened?

He got up, T-shirt clinging to his clammy skin like half-melted ice. He felt like he’d been awake for three days straight, only now the caffeine, sugar, and adrenaline were leaving his system to crash and burn.

Flip open the security bar. Turn the deadbolt. Press the handle. Let the door swing open. Easy steps that he struggled to manage. All he wanted was to curl up somewhere dark and warm and — and _cry_ , which was utterly ridiculous. He was a grown man — a bloody MI6 executive. He’d gone on his first mission and survived with nothing more than a tiny bruise.

Bond stood there in the hall, holding out the laptop. Before Q could reach for it, Bond lowered it and pushed the door open with his free hand. “May I come in?”

Q wanted to be alone, but he backed out of the doorway. They were still on mission, sort of. Bond was Q’s agent. Whatever he had to say, it was surely important. Relevant.

“Did you fill out your” — Q stopped himself from saying _after action report_ — “paperwork?” His voice sounded odd. Distant.

Instead of answering, Bond closed and locked the door. He walked past Q with slow, even steps and put the laptop on the chest of drawers. “Come sit down.”

Q looked from the laptop to Bond, who was standing in the empty space between the bed, the room’s single armchair, and the chest of drawers. “Was there a problem with the VPN?” The hotel wifi was sketchy, and if the connection dropped long enough, Q would have to reauthenticate.

“Please. You need to sit, Q,” Bond answered unhelpfully.

They were having two different conversations. Frustrated, Q sat down on the foot of the bed, leaving the chair for Bond — though he didn’t take it. Instead, he went to the cupboard by the door and took down a folded blue blanket. He shook it out as he brought it to the bed and then held it out to Q.

“Wrap up. It’s cold.”

Q _was_ wrapped up, still wearing the windcheater over his clothes. Bond was only in his T-shirt and jeans. He didn’t look cold, but Q was, admittedly, still freezing. He felt ridiculous, but he pulled the blanket around his back and up over his shoulders.

“May I sit?”

Q frowned at the tentative edge in Bond’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

Bond sighed and sat on the very edge of the mattress, a foot away from Q. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

For one moment, Q thought that Bond was worried _for him_. Of course Bond was worried; they were still in enemy territory. His brain seemed to scratch and stutter before he finally thought to say, “If the hotel’s not safe, we should move.”

He started to rise, but Bond caught the blanket. “We’re safe.” He let go as soon as Q settled back down, as if trying to keep his distance.

Q wanted to ask what was wrong, then, but he couldn’t figure out how — not without sounding like a fool. He felt like he was coming down with the worst cold of his life, only without the usual sniffles and coughs. His body was too heavy, his thoughts sluggish and dull.

He pulled the blanket up higher over his shoulders and moved towards Bond. He was a solid, warm presence beside Q, and Q found himself inching closer, until they were pressed together from knees to shoulders.

With a quiet sigh, Bond shifted, turning towards Q, allowing Q to get even closer. Q took his first deep, steady breath in forever and rested his head against Bond’s shoulder. Bond put an arm around Q’s back, fingers curling around Q’s biceps, and Q’s shivering finally started to ease.

Neither of them said another word until Q’s alarm sounded, warning them it was time to leave.

 

~~~

 

“You’ll fly Virgin-Atlantic out of Boston’s Logan Airport,” Q said, sending the flight information and electronic boarding pass to Bond’s mobile. “I thought you’d prefer to forego the usual courtesies with our American colleagues, so you won’t have an escort, and you’ll be travelling alone.”

“Alone,” Bond repeated, blue eyes narrowing. “What about you?”

Q shook his head. He’d already fallen apart for no bloody reason, all but breaking down in tears, right in front of Bond. He’d be damned if he let Bond see that sort of weakness again. He tucked his mobile into the back pocket of his blue jeans. When he’d had TJ arrange the hotel rooms as their ‘safehouse’, he’d specified secure comms, a laptop with a biometric lock, and a standard Q Branch field kit. He’d forgotten entirely about a bloody change of clothes.

“Standard operating procedure, 007,” he said as he slid the laptop into its travel sleeve. “The usual cover story — you shipped your luggage ahead, all that.”

“I know how to get out of America,” Bond said, his frown deepening. “What about you? I don’t want —”

“SOP,” Q repeated firmly. “We were last seen travelling together. They’ll be looking for us, together. Not separately.”

“I can’t protect you if I’m not with you.”

“We’re in America, 007, not Kabul. Now go. You have a two hour drive ahead of you.” Q glanced around, but he had no luggage to pack. All he had were his mobile, laptop, and a passport and other papers, all under an identity that couldn’t be traced back to MI6 or to Ethan Davies.

“You’re a bloody executive, not a field agent,” Bond protested, taking a step towards him.

Q tensed, trying not to flinch away, not because he didn’t want to be touched but because he did. The part of him that had no ego and no care for how their working relationship would suffer wanted nothing more than to curl up in Bond’s arms and never let go.

Bond saw it. Backed away, jaw set. Q went cold inside.

“Go, Bond. If you miss your flight, you’ll have to bloody well swim back,” Q threatened, turning away.

“Q...”

He ignored Bond and went out into the hall. Someone back at Q Branch could handle the checkout. Q already had a car waiting for him, a car with a GPS that would get him to JFK Airport in New York, where a British Airways flight would take him back to Heathrow.

Separate travel. Bond didn’t need to see Q fall apart all over again, this time out of a ridiculous fear of flying. The mission was all but over. Time to put it where it belonged. In the past.


	4. Chapter 4

Leaving Q alone went against every instinct Bond had. Q wasn’t a field agent, trained to pass through nightmare without being deeply affected — especially not with what he’d had to endure.

Bond had taken one look at the video footage of the rescued hostage and had volunteered for the mission. He knew any of the Double O’s could have handled the broad terms of the mission, but only a few of them had anything close to relevant experience, though with consenting, aware partners. But 009 was a switch, 004 a dabbler, and 0018 and 0022 were both out in the field, which meant Bond was the only logical candidate.

Despite that, Mallory had hesitated to give the mission a green light. He’d known without asking that Bond would have to play the role of a human trafficker and make it believable. He knew what Bond would have to do to the innocent victims of the trafficking ring.

But Bond had insisted, and finally Mallory had let him get into the field where he belonged. He’d never anticipated the traffickers to have such high security, but he should have. They’d operated undetected for too long to be anything but — much as he hated to apply the term — professional.

So who the _hell_ had allowed Q to be the one to deliver the exfiltration order? Bond swore to find out and strangle the bloody idiot. Yes, Boothroyd had joined active operatives in the field on occasion, but the man had been military. He’d been trained, even if that training had been thirty years ago or more. And he hadn’t been... _this_ Q.

Bond turned in his seat to look out the window at the darkness below. He had always prided his ability to put aside his missions — to push away the nightmares that would crack a less-trained mind — but he couldn’t rid himself of the memory of Q. What they’d done. How Q’s body had felt. How Q had begged for more. Actually _wanted_ more.

Bond had no doubt that what had started as an act meant to fool surveillance had become real for Q. And damn it all, it had been real for him, too.

He wanted to be with Q now. He _needed_ to be with Q now, holding him, helping him work through what they’d done together. Despite his slender, even fragile appearance, Q was a strong man. He hadn’t made it to his rank by being weak. And he had no idea that he was _still_ strong.

The thought that Q might be alone somewhere in America or on some other flight, terrified that some essential part of himself had been broken, was like torture for Bond.

Of course, he knew why Q had been chosen to deliver the exfiltration order. Bond’s cover identity had included Q’s photo, which meant that the enemy would accept Q far more easily than they would another outsider. Only a handful of hours had passed between the discovery of Allen, Bond’s now-dead contact, and Q’s departure from London. The exfiltration op had been thrown together at the last instant.

That it had been executed perfectly was entirely to Q’s credit, but would that be enough to assuage Q’s self-doubt? Or had this mission just cost MI6 another quartermaster — and destroyed perhaps the most beautiful submissive Bond had ever known?

 

~~~

 

Bond allowed the debriefing to last for hours because he hoped that Q would come to Mallory’s office to report directly. He finally left only when Mallory closed up the executive office for the night, telling him, “Go home, Bond. When we have news of the traffickers, I’ll let you know. Other than that, you’re on standard downtime.”

Exhausted, Bond wanted to go down to Q Branch, but he didn’t dare. The last thing he wanted to do was to even _hint_ at pressuring Q. Back in the States, when Q had handed over the laptop, Bond had accessed Q’s after action report. It had been terse, little more than a mission summary. There had been no mention of any intimacy at all between Quartermaster and agent. Assuming that Q had taken steps to eliminate any surveillance footage the traffickers might have recorded, Bond had respected Q’s desire for privacy and similarly made no mention of what he’d done to Q.

Now, though, as he forced himself to go to the garage beneath MI6 rather than to find Q, Bond wondered if that had been a wise decision. Bond had coping mechanisms, both healthy and not, to help him get past a bad mission. Other agents. Occasional lovers. Even the refuge of his flat. What did Q have? _Who_ did Q have?

Bond had no idea. Did Q have family? A lover? A partner or spouse?

Only as Bond stepped out of the lift did he realise just how little he knew about his Quartermaster. Q was a voice whispering in his ear, a calm hand presenting him with his weapons and field kit, and... and that was all. Bond didn’t even know his damned name.

Bond’s distraction — his worry — was so complete that he never even spotted the slender man standing near Bond’s car. “You made it back all right,” Q said, his voice so soft that it didn’t even echo in the nearly empty garage.

“Q.” Bond stopped, wanting to go to him, knowing that he shouldn’t. He’d changed clothes. Bond had never seen Q in the gym, so he probably kept spare clothing in his office rather than an assigned locker.

Q took a single step towards Bond. “I expected — You didn’t come down to Q Branch to return your kit.”

Bond patted the pocket of the suit he’d retrieved from his own locker. “Forgot I had this,” he admitted, taking out the mobile Q had handed him less than a day earlier. Remembering how Q had flinched back from him, he advanced slowly, holding out the mobile.

Q nodded, holding out his hand. Bond stopped at arm’s length and set the mobile in Q’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” Bond said quietly. He wasn’t referring to the mobile.

“That’s all right.” Q took a deep breath. He wasn’t meeting Bond’s eyes, but he wasn’t looking away, searching for an escape. He was calm, emotions and thoughts hidden deep. He was surprisingly good at hiding himself. Even Bond, with all his training, had been hard-pressed to see any sign of anxiety at all back at the traffickers’ house.

Not wanting to let Q go just yet, Bond asked, “Have you eaten?”

Q’s lips twitched up just slightly. “Danielle made certain I did,” he said wryly. “She knew our travel schedule was tight. I’m surprised she didn’t go after you.”

“I was in Mallory’s office.” Bond shifted his weight, though he caught himself before he could actually take a step. “Mallory expects personal reports after all Double O missions.”

“Oh.” Q turned, looking towards the lifts, and Bond felt an icy flash of rage when he saw the bruise on Q’s jaw. “He could have called me. I was in my office the whole time.”

Bond took the step. “I answered all his questions. I told him what he needed to know. _Only_ what he needed to know.”

Q turned back. He didn’t flinch away or step back. The smile reappeared briefly. “Thank you.”

Bond didn’t want to let Q go, but he had no legitimate reason to keep him. The mission was wrapped, the paperwork and reporting complete, and even the social excuse of a friendly dinner wasn’t an option. But perhaps it was better that way. Without Bond as a constant reminder of what had happened, Q could go back to his daily routine, whatever that was. The sooner he got his life back to normal, the sooner he could get past what had happened.

“Good night, then,” Bond said, his smile calculated to be friendly and nothing more. He turned towards his car and started walking, retrieving the keys from his pocket. Behind him, he heard Q’s footsteps.

Walking away.

 _Fuck_.

Bond stopped, thumb resting on the key fob without pressing any of the buttons, and thought about everything Q had said. He’d been in his office the whole time. He hadn’t left for lunch; otherwise, Danielle wouldn’t have ended up feeding him. He’d been waiting for Bond down in Q Branch, and now he’d been waiting for Bond here, in the bloody garage, without even a flimsy, work-related excuse.

Bond turned back. Q was walking towards the lifts, back turned. He wasn’t hugging the walls or darting from one pool of light to the next. He didn’t have his head down, shoulders slumped, feet dragging. He hadn’t cracked. He’d dropped, yes, but after what they’d done, Bond had expected it. But he wasn’t _broken_.

“Q.”

He turned back, and if Bond couldn’t see any hopeful expectation in Q’s expression, at least there was no hostility. “007?”

Even the use of Bond’s designation rather than his name didn’t feel like an attempt to keep his distance. Bond smiled and hit the button to disarm his car alarm. The horn honked and lights flashed. Q’s glasses briefly flared with the reflection.

“I haven’t had lunch or dinner yet,” Bond said.

Q slowly smiled back at him. “Should I let Danielle know?”

Bond laughed. “Are you trying to get me in trouble, Quartermaster?”

Q started back towards the car, and Bond felt a weight leave his chest. “While I did eat lunch later than normal, I had no plans for dinner,” Q admitted.

“Would you care to follow, or shall I drive?”

“I’ll let you drive, though I confess, part of that is in hopes that you’ll drink too much, and I can drive on the way home.”

It was too soon for Bond to ask if that meant Q wanted to come home _with him_ , but just the possibility made Bond grin. “Whatever you want, all you have to do is ask,” he said, holding out his keys.

Q cupped his hand under the keys and gathered them up, fingers brushing against Bond’s skin as he did. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

~~~

 

After Silva had brutally murdered Bond’s beloved Aston Martin, Bond had grudgingly settled on the new Vanquish. The convertible had tempted him, but he spent too much time out of the country, and the odds were slim that he’d be in London for enough sunny days to enjoy it. Better to have the solidity of an actual roof than sulk over not putting the top down even once.

The engine came to life with the snarl of a half-tame dragon. Bond opened his mouth to give a gentle warning — the Vanquish was powerful and responsive, and the tunnels leading up from the underground garage were narrow — but the sight of Q’s fingers gliding over the glass control buttons made Bond’s thoughts unravel like a thread caught on a nail.

Then they were moving, and Q shot Bond a quick grin. “I’ve heard the rumours of how much you loved your old car, but this... this is a work of art. I’ll admit to surprise, though. Automatic transmission?”

“There wasn’t an option for manual.”

“Mmm, perhaps it’s not necessary,” Q said, accelerating a touch more than was legal. “The shifting feels flawless.”

No longer worried that Q would tear off the side panels on the tunnel walls, Bond turned in his seat to better watch Q. His sly smile never faded, and his eyes were full of electric intensity. For one instant, Bond recalled looking down to see that same intensity when he’d trapped Q’s hands against the mattress and thrust into his body, tight and hot.

Uncomfortably aroused, Bond turned away, looking out the windscreen without actually seeing the tunnel. Once they’d passed the security checkpoint and were out on the streets, he was tempted to crack his window, though he’d be damned if he betrayed his inner thoughts that much.

“Where are we going?” Q asked as he pulled out onto the street. “Not that I object to driving aimlessly, though I’ll be tempted to leave city congestion before too long. I’d just rather not have you faint from hunger.”

“Faint from hunger?” Bond shot back. His glare lasted for half a heartbeat, though, fading under the brilliance of Q’s grin. Q was _happy_. Despite everything that had happened in Connecticut, he was happy to be here with Bond — and Bond was perfectly willing to take at least half the credit for Q’s mood, though he did concede some of it to the entertainment of driving a truly stunning car.

“Well, at your age, 007, one can’t be too careful,” Q teased.

 _That does it_ , Bond thought, debating his options. “You’re on post-mission downtime, aren’t you?”

Q shot him a surprised look. “Yes, though it’s not —”

Bond interrupted, “Do you have a cat to feed? Plants to water?”

Q blinked. “No.”

“Are you awake enough to drive?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have taken the keys.”

“Good,” Bond said and leaned forward to program a destination into the satnav.


	5. Chapter 5

Halfway across the south of England, Bond took over the wheel and turned off the satnav. He braced himself for the inevitable demands — _Where are we going?_ — but Q just gave the dark satnav a single curious look and then dug around in his jacket pockets. As he took out an iPod, he said, “I assume you have an overnight kit in the boot?”

Bond’s mind flashed to the kit in his bedroom back home, an antique trunk packed not with clothes but with soft leather and bright silver chains and — _No_. That wasn’t at all what Q had meant.

He nodded, glancing over at Q. “Regs. I’ve actually got an overnight kit and a five-day suitcase. We can go out tomorrow and get you whatever you need,” he said, trying to sound reassuring rather than reluctant. After just fifteen hours of being able to see and touch and hold every inch of Q’s pale, soft skin, he was addicted.

A faint darkening of Q’s cheeks made Bond wonder if Q was thinking along the same lines. “Thank you,” he said, running his fingers over the dashboard controls. “I don’t do this, you know.”

Bond kept his expression neutral. Were they going to have _the talk_ here, in the car? He knew it was necessary, but he’d hoped to wait until they were somewhere safe and comfortable, after a good night’s sleep — alone or together.

“I don’t do anything spontaneous at all, really,” Q continued. “I plan _everything_ — in case you couldn’t guess, given my vocation.”

“I can have you back in London before dawn,” Bond said truthfully, though he hoped Q wouldn’t insist. Q had shown extraordinary courage in taking on the Connecticut mission. “Whatever you’d like.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d objected, I would’ve said something when you programmed the satnav with Cornwall as our destination. I’d add something about trusting you to keep an MI6 executive safe, but then you might feel compelled to offer visual proof that you were carrying a weapon against regs.”

Bond laughed, relieved; Q really was stronger than he seemed at first glance. “ _Technically_ , I’m allowed —”

“— to either relinquish your weapon to Q Branch for cleaning and reconditioning or lock your weapon in your personal secure storage at MI6 at the conclusion of every mission.” Q smiled as soft piano music started to play. “I know you better than that, 007.”

“James,” he corrected as a soft female voice joined the piano. He refused to allow himself to remember Q’s pleading, broken voice saying _master_.

“Iain,” he said, with a soft laugh looking out the windscreen. “Iain Washburn. I’ve never liked it.”

Perhaps he’d never liked his name, but he’d offered it to Bond all the same. Bond suggested, “Q, then? After this long, I can’t think of you as Iain.”

Q smiled at him, bright and unshadowed. “Thank you, James.”

After what they’d shared, these small intimacies should have felt insignificant, but somehow Connecticut gave them greater weight. Bond moved his left hand from the wheel and reached out towards Q. A moment later, Q’s warm hand closed around his, deceptively soft, deceptively strong.

This _thing_ between them, had started badly, but neither of them was running away. Bond’s hand tightened. He wanted to know more — to actually _know_ Q in a way that rarely mattered, when it came to choosing a lover or a submissive. He wanted to watch Q wake up without the fear that they were in danger. To discover what made Q laugh. What movies he liked. What desserts he preferred.

The music built to a crescendo, and the singer’s powerful voice filled the car. _But I set fire to the rain._

“Adele?” Bond asked, only then recognising the song.

“Do you mind? She’s a favourite.”

“I don’t mind,” Bond said, and filed away another fact about his Quartermaster. His Q.

 

~~~

 

The darkness was complete, pierced only by the soft glow of the light beside the weathered grey door. Q had been dozing; rather than being offended at the lack of conversation, Bond took it as a good sign that Q felt safe enough to let down his guard.

Now, Q sat up, blinking at the view through the windscreen. “Is that a barn?”

“Observant, aren’t you, Quartermaster?” Bond teased. He got out while Q was still staring, and he made it around the car to open Q’s door before Q could even unlatch his seatbelt. “Welcome to Cornwall.”

Q took Bond’s hand and allowed Bond to help him out of the car. “Contrary to many serial killer movies, a barn isn’t necessarily a good place to hide a body, if you’re thinking of getting rid of me.”

Bond grinned and lifted his hand, brushing his fingers over Q’s jaw. His stubble had come in, a dark shadow that Bond rather liked. He looked properly his age, not distressingly young. Bond stroked his thumb below Q’s cheekbone and watched as Q leaned into the touch, eyes closing.

“I was thinking of hiding you away here, yes, but very much alive,” Bond said quietly, drawn closer by the way Q’s lips parted. He remembered the taste of Q’s kiss, but only when it was desperate, laced with fear and desire. Would it be different here, in isolation and safety? Did he dare push to find out, or should he let Q set the pace himself?

“We’ll have to go back eventually.” Q opened his eyes and tipped his head, rubbing against Bond’s fingertips. “Your kidnapping was poorly planned, 007. There are security cameras everywhere at the office.”

“Let them come for us,” Bond said, surrendering to temptation. A gasp turned Q’s lips cool; then heat seared into Bond as Q’s mouth opened, tongue barely touching Bond’s. Unable to resist, Bond chased Q’s tongue, stroking with his own. With a quiet sound, almost a whimper, Q leaned into the kiss, hands clenching around Bond’s jacket.

Bond’s hand locked to Q’s nape, fingers twisting in his hair. Q’s gasp broke with another whimper made high and thin by the way Bond pulled his head back. His teeth found Q’s throat, hot and soft, pulse leaping against Bond’s tongue. The world narrowed to the night air and the sound of the waves and Q in his arms, yielding and warm.

Too late, he recalled that he’d wanted to take things easy, to avoid overwhelming Q. He drew back from the kiss, gentling his hold on Q’s hair, and ran his hand soothingly down Q’s back. Q’s hands fisted, tugging at Bond’s jacket for another second before he let go, eyes opening in confusion.

“Let’s get inside,” Bond suggested.

Q’s laugh was shaky. “Right.” He stepped back, letting his fingertips trail down Bond’s chest, and looked at the barn. “We didn’t stop for groceries, and a bag of crisps from motorway services doesn’t count as dinner for you. Can I even hope for tea, or are we roughing it for the night?”

“Trust me.” Bond gave Q one last kiss before he went to the door. As promised, the key was in the mailbox. Not exactly top security, but no one had any reason to suspect an MI6 executive and an assassin would be here. He opened the door and felt along the wall for the switch.

The barn was a single open room, with a loft bedroom on one side above a kitchen, and a living room with a huge riverstone fireplace on the other side. A tiny water closet was built into one corner; instead of being hidden away, the clawfoot bathtub was tucked to one side of the fireplace.

It was precisely the romantic getaway the website had promised — the type of place that would’ve made Bond turn and run, any other day. Not that he objected to romance; he just preferred to know the only strings attached were the restraints he enjoyed using, with the right partner. So why the hell had he intentionally sought out a remote, romantic getaway to share with Q?

 

~~~

 

“So, is cooking one of your hidden talents?” Q asked over the sound of running water as he filled the kettle.

“I manage,” Bond admitted, cataloguing the contents of the fridge. He could cook well enough, though he’d hoped to spend the evening outside the kitchen. “Pasta?”

Q shot Bond an incredulous look. “Pasta? That’s the best you can offer?” He shook his head and waved Bond away from the fridge. “Watch the tea, 007, and try not to burn anything.”

“I haven’t lit a kitchen on fire in at least a year,” Bond protested, stifling a laugh.

“Well done, you, then. When you get fired for letting your Quartermaster starve to death, you can get a job as head chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant,” Q said, piling eggs, cheese, and butter on the counter.

Bond threw a glance at the kettle. Not on fire. “I take it _you_ can cook?”

“I make your explosives, 007. Of course I can cook,” Q scolded. He let the fridge door swing closed as he started opening cupboard doors. “Find me a frying pan, and then get out of the kitchen.”

“I can help, you know.”

“If you want to be helpful, build up the fire.” Q smirked at him as he took down a large bowl. “Or are sanctioned fires not your forte?”

“You’re the executive. I’m just the hired help,” Bond said, laughing, and went to find a pan. “So what else can you do besides cooking and explosives?”

“I’m afraid the rest of my talents all centre around my computer skills.” Q started cracking eggs into the bowl. “And since I can’t build us a TARDIS, you’re having scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. Anything else will take too much time.”

Bond found a frying pan and turned to say something, but he lost his words at the sight of Q’s nape, pale and vulnerable under the fall of his hair. Images flashed — memories. The line of Q’s back, spine pressing against his skin as he arched. The way he’d surrendered to the cuffs and chains, leaning back against Bond’s chest. The way his words had shattered into whimpers.

Then Q turned, and Bond quickly set the frying pan on the counter. “Thank you.” Q smiled, clearly unaware of Bond’s darkly intimate thoughts. He moved the pan to the hob and turned on the gas. “This is your kidnapping, not mine. What other plans did you have for me?”

Reminding himself to take things slowly, Bond said, “Whatever you’d like. It’s too cold for swimming, but we can hire a sailboat, go hiking or horse riding... I think there’s a golf course —”

“Hiking. Horse riding.” Q shot Bond a disbelieving look. “You’re not dying, are you?”

“Dying?”

Q shook his head, though he kept focused on whisking the eggs. “You didn’t bring me here for a back-to-nature holiday, Bond. If you’re not dying... well, aren’t we a bit old for games?”

Bond shook his head, smiling at Q’s back. “You’re very unpredictable, Quartermaster.”

“If I weren’t, we’d be having room service at Claridge’s right now.” Q cut a chunk of butter and used the knife slide it into the frying pan where it started to sizzle. “Am I right?”

Bond thought about the numbers programmed into his personal mobile, the entanglement-free affairs he generally preferred after missions, the way London made willing seduction laughably simple. The way he wanted more than that with Q.

“You’re right,” he admitted.

Q tipped the eggs into the frying pan. Then he turned and smiled back at Bond. “The fire, 007.”

Laughing, Bond headed for the living room. “Of course, Quartermaster. The fire.”

 

~~~

 

Q rolled onto his back, half across Bond’s lap, and caught the falling blanket with one hand. He twitched it over them both, though it was tangled under his shoulder and over one leg. When he stilled, Bond wrapped his arms around Q and pulled him back into a kiss made slightly awkward by the angle of their bodies. The fire had warmed the barn, perhaps a little too much; what would be cosy upstairs, in the bedroom loft, was stifling in front of the hearth.

“James,” Q said between kisses. He twisted onto his side, bracing one arm against the couch. The other was around Bond’s shoulders.

“Hm?” Focused instead on Q’s mouth, Bond let Q’s weight pull him back down.

“James.” Q shifted again, flattening a hand against the arm of the couch. He drew back enough to meet Bond’s eyes. “This is very romantic, I’m sure, but is this _remotely_ comfortable?”

Bond bit back a laugh. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be comfortable,” he admitted, brushing Q’s fringe out of his eyes.

Q huffed, mouth twitching with the smile he tried to hide, and kicked free of the blanket. Cold air swirled around them both. “Then can we please move this elsewhere, and leave snogging on the couch to the teenagers?”

“With pleasure.” Bond got up off the admittedly lumpy couch and picked up Q’s glasses from the side table.

Q took them with a nod of thanks. “I don’t suppose your travel kit includes toiletries for two, does it?”

“No, but I had two full kits in the car.” Bond went for the suitcases he’d left by the door, trying to remember which he’d restocked more recently. “You’re not regretting Cornwall over Claridge’s, are you?”

“No,” Q answered without hesitation. He walked over to Bond, almost silent in his socks. “Truthfully, I’m exhausted, but I don’t know if I can sleep. Is it always like this?”

Mechanically, Bond unzipped the smaller suitcase and started digging through the clothes to find his toiletries bag. Q had to be talking about a mission, rather than about how he’d dropped back at the hotel in Connecticut. Did he even have the vocabulary to discuss what had happened?

“It’s different for everyone. It’s not just MI6 agents. It’s like this for soldiers, too.” He opened the bag and dug through the contents. Small hairbrush, straight razor, badger brush, soap, first aid kit, cosmetics to hide bruises or cuts. He found a toothbrush still in its package and offered it to Q, along with the toothpaste. “Whatever you’re feeling, don’t fight it. Just let it happen. Your body and mind both have to recover.”

Q avoided Bond’s eyes. “I suppose that makes sense.” He managed a smile and said, “Thanks,” before he turned and went to the bathroom.

Under any other circumstance, Bond would’ve been put off by the way Q’s defences had come back so unexpectedly, but what he’d said was true. Q wasn’t a field agent, and the first time in the field, whether for a young soldier or a mature MI6 executive, had unexpected effects. Post-mission downtime was mandatory for a reason; field operatives needed time to defuse, to get back on a normal sleep schedule and diet, to rest and reacclimatise to civilian society.

Fifteen minutes later, they were upstairs in the comfortably cooler loft. The bed at least was perfect, if a bit small, forcing Q and Bond to cuddle close together. Bond fitted himself naturally against Q’s back, one arm under the pillows, the other politely over Q’s waist. He kept his hand flat against Q’s chest and tried not to remember sleeping with his fingers hooked in Q’s collar.

“Do you ever regret joining the Double O Programme?”

The question caught Bond off guard. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept with someone who knew his entire military record — possibly never.

“No,” he answered truthfully. “I’ve turned down two promotions —”

“ — to desk jobs,” Q interrupted. He shifted under the blankets, one foot rubbing against Bond’s shin. “That was in your file. The last time, you printed the promotion offer just so you could set fire to it on M’s desk.”

Bond laughed. “I was only trying to make my opinion clear. She was accustomed to getting her way, after all.”

Q huffed, muscles tensing with silent laughter under Bond’s hand. “And you’re not,” he said wryly.

Bond couldn’t hide a slight flinch. It didn’t sound accusatory, but he could all too clearly remember Q’s disbelieving look when Bond had ordered him to strip. He kissed the back of Q’s head and said, “Go to sleep, Q. I’m not going to let an executive scold me for my bad paperwork habits until we’ve had a good night’s sleep, followed by breakfast and coffee.”

This time, Q’s laugh slipped free, and the tension knotted up in Bond’s chest eased at the sound. “Then I’ll schedule an early morning appointment for your quarterly inventory review.”

 

~~~

 

Bond came awake slowly, lazily, aware that he was safe and secure. Soft hair tickled at his face. He shifted against the warm, slender body in his arms, and heat coiled low in his gut as his cock, roused before his conscious mind, pressed against a firm arse. He twitched his hand, fingertips pressed against a soft throat, feeling the rapid pulse, and he was tempted to close his hand, silencing breath just long enough to feel that pulse jump.

The thought snapped him fully awake. _Q_. Resisting temptation, he eased his hold and brushed his hand down Q’s chest, moving slowly.

“Awake?” he asked in a whisper quiet enough not to rouse Q if he still slept.

Q hummed and deliberately pushed his arse against Bond’s cock again. “Do I have a good reason to be awake?” he asked, sharp diction softened with lingering drowsiness.

Back in Connecticut, Q hadn’t objected to morning sex, and Bond had subtly given him every opportunity to do so. The memory tore through Bond, mind and body. How he’d pinned Q to the mattress, shoved his legs apart, and prepared him rough and fast before sliding inside. How Q hadn’t objected — _had_ , in fact, signalled _yes_ repeatedly, every time Bond offered to stop.

 _Take it slow_ , Bond reminded himself, reining in his imagination. He wouldn’t bring a hint of dominance into their bed. Not until he could actually sit down and talk with Q about it. But there were other things he needed to discuss first.

“I put condoms in the bedside table, if you want to use them.”

Q went still for a moment. “We didn’t, before.”

“Medical tested me before the mission — before all missions, actually,” Bond admitted, feeling an unusual sense of guilt at how often he had to use sex to achieve his objectives. “It would have looked suspicious to use one with you.” He didn’t mention that he had used condoms with the others. He didn’t want to think about them and what he’d had to do — and he didn’t want Q thinking about it either.

Q nodded, back still turned. He moved a hand over Bond’s, fingers spread to lace their hands together. “I suspected as much. And though you didn’t ask, I’m healthy as well.” He tipped his head back, hair rustling on the pillow, and turned just enough to meet Bond’s eyes. “We don’t have to, now.”

Relief swept through Bond; Q wasn’t angry, at least not about that. There were so many other things that might change Q’s mind. But all of that could wait. Now, he moved their joined hands down Q’s body, tracing the contours of his ribs before reaching the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen. When he finally brushed the tip of one finger against Q’s cock, Q shivered and made a quiet, approving sound.

Bond’s first thought was to tease, and he nearly pulled his hand away, but this wasn’t the time. He kept moving down instead, fingers trapping Q’s, curling, wrapping their hands around Q’s cock.

Q exhaled and leaned back against Bond’s chest. “James.”

James. Not master.

Bond closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Q’s breathing. He knew what Q liked when the sex was rough and brutally controlling. Now, he needed to focus on whatever Q had enjoyed before his unexpected introduction to submission.

But for all of Bond’s skills at reading people, he struggled with Q, whose responses were restrained and muted. Of all the times for Q to be shy, he chose _now_? A safe, romantic holiday was somehow _more_ threatening than being trapped in a house full of human traffickers?

Still, Bond had coaxed more difficult lovers to pleasure. A bit warily, he encouraged Q to roll over so they could properly kiss, and he used every trick he’d ever learned to bring Q — and himself — off with his hands.

And afterwards, he looked at Q, noting the way his skin had barely flushed and his eyes were clear and hazel, not dark and soft with desire. Even Q’s smile was subdued.

“Thank you, James. That was very nice,” he said with polite distance.

 _Very nice_.

Bond couldn’t recall the last time anyone had ever — _if_ they’d ever —

Q brushed a kiss across Bond’s lips and then rolled over to sit up on the far side of the bed. “Would you rather change the sheets or start breakfast?”

“I’ll — I’ll get the sheets,” Bond said numbly.

Q picked up the clothing he’d left at the foot of the bed. He gave Bond one last small smile and then went down the spiral stairs, out of sight.

Bond sighed and rolled onto his back, staring up at the exposed rafters. _Very nice_ , he thought sourly. Twelve hours of having Q in his collar, controlling every sensation, every pleasure, demanding absolute obedience. Twelve hours of Q begging and gasping and out of his mind with pleasure. And this — familiar, romantic, _comfortable_ sex, at least for Q — was nothing more than _very nice?_

Bond was a bloody idiot.

“Fucking shit,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

He threw the blanket aside and got out of bed. He pulled on his trousers, ignoring everything else, and made it to the foot of the spiral stairs just as Q came out of the bathroom. He’d put on his clothes and glasses, though he’d made no effort to tame his wild hair, nor had he shaved.

“Come here,” Bond ordered.

“What —”

“Either stay silent or acknowledge my order,” Bond said, his voice as sharp as the crack of a whip. “Now come here.”


	6. Chapter 6

Bond’s words hit Q like rocks splashing into a still, mirror-smooth pond, and a shiver passed through Q’s body. Q’s tongue darted out, touched his bottom lip, and a reckless hope surged into Bond at the thought of hearing ‘master’ again. Q hesitated for a single heartbeat before he circled the couch and walked towards Bond with slow, measured steps. His eyes flicked restlessly, anxiously down over Bond’s body, back up to his face, down again to his hands.

“My first time was when I was twelve. I wasn’t coerced. I lied to her, told her I was sixteen. I had a pair of handcuffs I’d stolen years earlier, because I liked to play with them.” He laughed softly, remembering the false confidence that had characterised his youth. The other boys had called him daring, never realising just how insecure he’d felt. “I’d spent years thinking I wasn’t normal,” Bond said, and Q met his eyes, startled. “The things I wanted to do — I didn’t tell anyone. I was afraid there was something wrong with me, though that didn’t stop me.”

Q frowned. Bit his lip. “I didn’t ask —”

“I’m telling you anyway.” Bond looked down at Q’s body. He was less tense, though still guarded. “All my life, I’ve wanted to take control. I enjoy dominating my partners. A part of me _needs_ to. I’ve submitted before, but it’s never really done anything for me.”

Q looked away, fingers twitching over his shirt, tugging at the material. “I’ve never even thought about it.”

“And some people would say I’ve thought about it too much.” He brushed his hand up Q’s sleeve. Q stopped fidgeting and let his hand fall to his side. “Would you like to try, without the cameras and threat of imminent death?”

Q’s answering laugh was sharp. Nervous. “Given that I’m your Quartermaster and you’re an assassin, you’ve just written off our job descriptions.” He turned to meet Bond’s eyes. “This can’t... I _won’t_ risk our professional relationship.”

“And I’m not interested in being anyone’s full-time dominant.” Bond slid his hand over Q’s shoulder and touched his throat with one finger. “I’m a stubborn pain in the arse even without that sort of encouragement.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Q stepped forward, and Bond pulled him close, relieved that neither of them was running away. Their embrace was natural, comfortable, and Q let out a sigh that was warm against Bond’s skin. “What would you want?”

Bond bit back a recitation of the far too long list he’d built in his mind. Instead, he said, “Outside the sex? I want the chance to get to know you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Q said with another soft laugh, though he relaxed in Bond’s arms.

Bond turned enough to kiss Q’s ear and kept his tone relaxed and natural, saying, “The same thing, actually. I don’t want you to be a one-night stand — or a one-holiday stand. I want to learn what you like. Help you try new things you never expected to like.”

Q tensed, though only a little. He didn’t try to pull away; if anything, he pressed a bit closer, still hiding his face against Bond’s neck. “I don’t...” He shook his head a bit, just enough for his hair to tickle Bond’s jaw. “It’s not something I’ve ever done. Other than _that_.”

It was easy enough for Bond to fill in the gaps. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t enjoy.”

“Isn’t the... the point to do what _you_ want?” Q asked, drawing back just enough for Bond to see how his cheeks had darkened.

“With some people yes. With us, I don’t think so.” Bond turned and kissed Q’s ear, teasingly light. “I think it would be more fun” — he touched the tip of his tongue to the shell of Q’s ear — “to introduce you to new things” — he dipped his tongue inside just long enough to make Q shiver — “and to coax you into allowing yourself to enjoy” — he nipped Q’s earlobe — “new experiences. Don’t you?”

Q let out a shaky breath. Raggedly, he asked, “How in _hell_ am I supposed to even think of an answer after that?”

Bond smiled. “Is that a yes?”

For long seconds, Q was silent. Bond read his anxiety in a hundred little tells — the shift of his weight, the cadence of his breath, the tension in his fingers. Finally, Q said, “It can’t... affect... us. It’s one thing, for a mission, but...”

“I know, Q.” Bond slid his hands down to Q’s and led him to the kitchen table. They sat opposite one another, still holding hands. Q could barely meet Bond’s eyes. “It has nothing to do with work. I like being the dominant one in bed, but could you picture me in Mallory’s job?”

A smile appeared, and Q’s shoulders shook with a suppressed laugh. “No.” He glanced up, eyes narrowing a bit. “But you were an officer.”

Bond nodded. “With subordinates _and_ superior officers. I was just a part of the chain of command.” He squeezed Q’s hands. “There are a few other Double O’s who enjoy this sort of thing — more submissives than dominants.”

Q searched Bond’s face, eyes narrowing, as if trying to read the truth of his words. Finally he nodded and looked away again — and then gave a wry laugh, saying, “God, now I’m going to be wondering.”

“But you don’t _know_ , because it doesn’t affect their ability to do their jobs.” He squeezed Q’s hands again. “Just like it won’t affect yours. You’ll still be the same man who runs his department and terrorises the field operatives when we don’t turn in our kit intact.” He let go of one hand and touched Q’s chin, tipping his face up so their eyes met. “You earned my respect months ago, Q. What happened in Connecticut didn’t change that. Nothing we do will ever change that.”

Q’s eyes closed, and he leaned into Bond’s touch with a quiet sigh. “I’ve thought about it,” he said softly. “I’ve hardly thought of anything else since... all that. But... I think I need more time.”

“And a decent breakfast and coffee — or tea, if you’d prefer.” Bond stood and leaned over the table to steal a kiss, brief and sweet. “Do you want me to cook?”

“I said I’ll cook. You get to change the sheets, remember? Then, maybe we can pick up some clothes for me and then go for a walk?”

“If it’s sunny out, will you catch fire?” Bond asked innocently.

Q rolled his eyes and stood. “If I do, I’ll make certain you burn with me.”

 

~~~

 

Nothing changed.

No unexpected commands. No scorn or derision. No taking charge and making decisions without consulting Q. Bond was friendly and considerate, charming and witty, and if he was a bit overprotective, not letting Q out of his sight, Q understood. No matter what they were to each other — friends with benefits, lovers, boyfriends, or master and... _something_ — they were also an MI6 assassin and executive. That would never change.

After breakfast, they went to a nearby village, where Q threatened to buy the most awful touristy T-shirts and hideous jumpers just to watch Bond cringe. They had lunch at a cafe, and later they went for a walk along the cliffs, not holding hands but walking side-by-side, sleeves occasionally brushing together.

It was perfect. It was calm and relaxing and, yes, romantic. If Q hadn’t been falling just a little bit in love with Bond before, he certainly was now.

When they returned to the barn, Bond insisted upon cooking. “Go relax in the tub,” he said as he exiled Q from the kitchen. Self-conscious about bathing in the corner of the living room, rather than a proper bathroom, he did. He reminded himself that Bond had seen him in far more intimate terms — and hopefully would again.

And god, wasn’t _that_ thought... He didn’t even know what to think of it. He sank neck deep into the water, glad for the high sides that gave him some measure of privacy. Why was it so terrifying to think that Bond might want him to wander about naked? After Connecticut, Q had nothing left to hide.

Of course, in Connecticut, he hadn’t had a choice. Well, he had, but it wasn’t the same. Now, he didn’t have the comforting illusion that he ‘had to’ take off his clothes or kneel or obey. Thinking about it now gave him the sort of queasy butterflies he used to get before having to do school presentations.

And he was desperately aroused.

Much as he wanted to do something about it, he didn’t dare put his hands under the water. He didn’t know what would be worse: getting caught or being told to stop.

And _that_ thought was even more arousing. God, what was wrong with him?

When he heard Bond’s approaching footsteps, he turned, splashing water out of the tub. Swearing under his breath, he ducked back down and twisted to look. Bond smiled, disarming and charismatic, and the nervous butterflies changed into something more excited.

“Dinner should be ready in just a few minutes.” Bond crouched down beside the tub, folding one arm casually on the edge. He brushed at Q’s damp hair, meeting his eyes rather than looking any lower. “It’s warm, but I’m going to build up the fire anyway. I’d like for you to stay naked.”

Q swallowed. So they were starting? Wasn’t there anything left to discuss?

“Work,” he blurted out. “How would this affect —”

“It wouldn’t,” Bond interrupted gently. He took Q’s hand, holding it gently between both of his. “Lives depend on both of us, Q. I will never expect anything from you at work.” Then he smiled, just a bit wickedly, and added, “Except perhaps a bit of snogging in the stairwell at the company Christmas party.”

A relieved, slightly hysterical laugh escaped. “Really?”

“Did you expect me to be shagging you over your desk at every turn?” Bond lifted Q’s hand and kissed his fingertips. “As appealing as that sounds, even I’m a _bit_ more professional than that.” He released Q’s hand to touch his face, and Q leaned into the touch. “Have you thought of a safeword?” Bond asked softly.

Q blinked his eyes open. “Isn’t —” He swallowed again. “Should I? I mean, shouldn’t you?” He snapped his mouth shut, realising too late that he was babbling, making no sense.

“It has to be something _you’ll_ remember,” Bond said, smiling only faintly, with no hint of mockery. “It can be anything you like. Just choose something you wouldn’t normally say in conversation.”

How the hell was he supposed to pick a word he _wouldn’t_ say? A thousand programming and engineering terms came to mind, but they all struck him as a little too nerdy for comfort. Something in another language? No, not a good idea. Q’s fluency was conversational at best, which Bond had warned against. No matter what he picked it would sound ridiculous. He was certain of that. He was a bloody genius, and how the _hell_ was he supposed to pick —

“Q.” Bond’s soft voice cut into Q’s spiral of self-doubt. “It’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not going to psychoanalyse you for your choice.”

“Exfil,” Q said, not really thinking about it at all. But that made sense, didn’t it? After all, it was that bloody exfiltration order that had started all of this.

Bond leaned over the edge of the tub, soaking his sleeve as he kissed Q’s cheek. “Exfil. You say that, and whatever we’re doing stops right away. I won’t be upset. We’ll just stop and discuss whatever happened. Whatever you were feeling.”

It was a safety net, one Q hadn’t had before, back in Connecticut. Well, he _had_ — two taps, two noises, two of anything to signal _no_ — but he hadn’t been thinking of it in those terms. Some of the butterflies gave way, and Q splashed more water out of the tub as he caught Bond’s face and kissed him properly, sinking his awareness into the feel of Bond’s mouth. He tasted a hint of spices and tomato, a tiny bit of pepper, and he licked at Bond’s lips.

“Italian?”

“Bruschetta.” Bond backed away and smiled down at his wet sleeves. “We had a big lunch. I thought you’d like something light for dinner.” He gave a little shrug and leaned back in for another kiss. “Whenever you’re ready, dry off. Then join me in the kitchen.”

With another nervous swallow, Q nodded. He nearly said something — he could hear Bond’s _‘Acknowledge’_ in his memory — but at the last moment he stayed silent. Bond watched him, and Q suspected Bond knew exactly what he was thinking.

In the end, though, Bond just stood, brushed Q’s hair away again, and left the sitting area without saying a word. Q sighed and sank back down into the water, guiltily thinking he might have disappointed Bond.

It wasn’t until he was out of the tub, drying himself off with shaking hands, that he realised he might have also disappointed himself.


	7. Chapter 7

Backlit by the fire, Q’s pale skin was cast into soft shadow. He looked unreal, ghostlike, as if a single touch could make him disappear. Deceptively fragile. Deceptively strong.

He hung the towel carefully, folds smoothed out, spread across the bar to efficiently dry. Quick movements, betraying his nervousness, but no hint that he was trying to stall. He turned to Bond, meeting his eyes steadily. Bond lifted a hand, beckoning, and Q moved to stand before him.

“Look at you.” The words were quiet, softer than the sharp crackle of burning logs. Bond lifted his hand and touched Q’s face, tracing the line of his jaw. “You’re gorgeous.”

Colour rose in Q’s cheeks. He closed his eyes, leaning into Bond’s hand. “James —”

“Shh.” Bond put a finger across Q’s lips. Hot breath ghosted over his skin. “Are you warm enough? Just nod or shake your head,” he added. As much as he wanted to hear Q properly answer him, he couldn’t chance that Q wasn’t ready. Yet.

Q nodded, meeting Bond’s gaze again. The hazel in his eyes was slowly losing out to darkness, leaving only sparks of amber and emerald to ring his pupils.

Gently, Bond guided Q to stand in front of the fireplace, facing it. “Stay here,” he said, running his hands down Q’s arms, feeling the way his muscles tensed and skin shivered. “Don’t turn around.”

Another nod. With one last brush of fingertips against the sensitive undersides of Q’s wrists, Bond stepped back. Q shuddered, though not from cold, and shifted his weight. He remained silent.

Bond had already done his best to prepare the kitchen. Now, he picked up the soft lengths of material he’d bought while Q had been distracted by clothes shopping. Bond had no idea if they were meant to be scarves or something else; what mattered was that they were each just over two feet in length and only a handspan wide. They wouldn’t be too bulky when tied around Q’s slender wrists, and the material wouldn’t easily slip free of any knots.

He’d folded two handkerchiefs into small squares. He took those squares and one of the scarves back to the fireplace. “Close your eyes,” he said, not wanting to distract Q with the scarf’s gaudy colours. When he reached Q’s side, he said, “Tell me your safeword.”

Q’s tongue slid into view for a moment, wetting his lips. “Exfil.”

Bond’s fingers tightened on the fabric. He had to force himself to relax and keep the folds smooth and even. “I’m going to blindfold you now. I want it to stay on, so no playing with it. If you feel it slipping, tell me at once. Do you understand?”

“Yes —” Q cut himself off. Had his lips been drawing together, perhaps to form the sound of an _‘m’,_ or was he just tense?

“Acknowledge properly.” The command slipped out before Bond could think to stop himself.

Q’s eyes opened, wide and dark.

“Eyes closed,” Bond warned, crowding into Q’s space. He pushed down the irritation that flared through him at the disobedience; despite what they’d done in Connecticut, he had to remember that Q was a novice. With a little flinch, Q closed his eyes tightly. He took a shaky breath, and Bond wondered if he’d pushed too far.

Then Q stepped back. Bond braced against the disappointment of hearing his safeword before they’d even begun —

And then, slowly, Q knelt without opening his eyes. He reached forward, hand steady, until his fingertips brushed Bond’s trousers. Carefully, Q leaned forward, hand trailing down Bond’s shin to his ankle, his sock, his shoe, until Q was bowed over his feet.

Bond stopped breathing. The world snapped into sharp, vivid focus.

“I apologise, master,” Q said calmly. His head pushed against Bond’s leg as he bowed even lower, and though Bond felt nothing through his shoe, he knew that he’d see the faint impression of Q’s lips on the leather.

For one moment, Bond was tempted to tell Q this wasn’t necessary — that he didn’t have to perform for an audience or go too far, too fast. In Connecticut, he would’ve found a way to do just that. But here, Q had a safeword. Bond had to trust Q to say it — exfil or stop or no or _something_ — if this went too far.

Q had _chosen_ to do this. He _wanted_ it.

Q started to sit back on his heels but stopped himself as if uncertain. Bond reached down, carding his fingers through Q’s hair, and watched as some of the tension left Q’s back. When Bond twisted his hand and gave a sharp tug, Q gasped and knelt fluidly upright. His eyes were still closed.

“Good, pet,” Bond said warmly, and he watched a shiver pass through Q’s body. Before, Q wasn’t hard; now he was, just enough to catch Bond’s attention. Crouching down, Bond let go of Q’s hair so he could lift the scarf. “I’m going to hold the blindfold in place. I want you to tie it for me, tightly enough that it won’t slip.”

Q licked his lips again. “Yes, master.”

The words hit Bond like bullets, sending shockwaves through his body.

He had to take another breath to steady himself so he could put the ends of the scarf in Q’s hands. Then he lifted the folded handkerchiefs and set one over each eye, with the scarf across them. “Tie it now,” he said, keeping the scarf folded. The handkerchiefs would conform to Q’s face, blocking light from creeping in at the bridge of his nose and the corners of his eyes. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than the scarf alone.

Q tied the ends of the scarf in a neat square knot, high enough on the back of his head that the scarf wouldn’t easily slip down. Once he was done, he lowered his hands to rest on his thighs. His lips parted, but he didn’t speak.

Bond moved his hands to cup Q’s jaw and indulged his desire to take in the gorgeous sight before him. Q’s breathing was light and rapid, his muscles tense, but Bond saw no sign of tension in him. He was comfortable, unselfconscious. The gift of Q’s submission — his _trust_ — was almost overwhelming.

“Come with me,” Bond said, guiding Q up to his feet. Q reached for Bond, then pulled his hands back and let them fall to his sides. “I’ve got you.”

Step-by-step, Bond led Q to the kitchen and back down to his knees, this time on two folded blankets beside the table. Q settled with a quiet exhale. Bond kept one hand in Q’s hair, petting gently, as he circled around the blankets to sit down at the head of the table.

“Here. Reach up,” Bond said as he picked up one of the water glasses. When Q lifted his hand, Bond set the glass in his hand. “It’s water. The blanket ends a few inches forward. You can set the glass down there.”

Q felt along the blanket with his free hand until his fingertips reached the end. Carefully, he put the glass on the floor, then knelt back on his heels. Bond couldn’t resist touching Q’s hair. Q shivered again, leaning into Bond’s hand.

 _Take it slowly_ , Bond reminded himself. “Ready for dinner?”

Q took a deep breath and nodded.

Bond didn’t think. He gave Q’s hair a sharp tug before he could stop himself.

Q’s gasp was sharp. Quiet. He swallowed and said, “Yes, master.”

It was Bond’s turn to shiver. He brushed his fingertips over Q’s cheek, and Q turned to press a kiss to his hand.

Maybe not so slowly after all.

 

~~~

 

Bond stared down, entranced, at the sight of his fingertip pressed to Q’s mouth. Q licked and sucked until the last traces of olive oil were gone and then bit gently, teeth pressed to Bond’s fingernail. All Bond had to do was unzip his flies, spread his legs, and pull Q close, and he could have Q’s mouth properly. Would Q protest? Would he safeword? Or would he surrender to Bond’s will as beautifully as he had in Connecticut?

“Give me your glass,” Bond said, reluctantly pulling his hand away from Q’s mouth.

“Yes, master.” The words came smoothly, without hesitation. Q leaned forward, feeling along the floor until his fingertips touched the glass. When he picked it up, the water’s surface betrayed the slightest tremor in his hand.

Bond took the glass and set it on the table. Before Q could lower his hand, Bond caught it and raised it to his lips. “Tell me your safeword, Q.”

“Exfil.” Then he added, “Master.”

“It’s your three-signal. More clarification. Use it if you need me to stop for any reason, even just to talk for a minute.”

Q nodded. “Yes master.”

“Stand up. I’ll help you,” Bond said as he pushed his chair back. They both rose, and Bond took hold of Q’s shoulders, keeping him steady.

Q leaned into Bond’s hands with a faint shiver that passed through his whole body. He exhaled, lips almost shaping a word. His fingertips brushed Bond’s hips before he put his hands back down at his sides.

“Easy, pet. Turn around,” he ordered, steering Q to face the fireplace across the barn. Quietly Bond took the two remaining scarves from the table. He draped them over one shoulder and then took hold of Q’s arms from behind. “Walk forward. I’ll keep you safe.”

In a show of trust that made Bond grin, Q began to walk without hesitation. Bond guided him past the spiral staircase and around the couch. Q sighed shakily again as the heat from the fireplace washed over them both.

When they reached the edge of the carpet, Bond said, “Kneel down. Hands on your thighs.”

Q knelt, and Bond circled around to crouch in front of him. He took Q’s right hand and wrapped the scarf twice around his wrist, careful to keep it comfortably loose as he tied a square knot. Q’s lips parted on a soft sound. As Bond eased the other scarf underneath the wraps, he felt Q’s pulse start to race.

“If it’s too tight, let me know,” Bond said as he pulled Q’s other wrist close. He wrapped the second scarf around once, fed it through the first one, and then pulled tight, crossing Q’s wrists. He knotted it securely and then tucked the ends of both scarves neatly away. “All right?”

“Fine, master,” Q whispered raggedly.

Bond ran his fingers over Q’s palm and along his fingers, watching Q’s breath hitch. He liked it. He liked being bound. What Bond wouldn’t have given to have Q back home in London, where Bond could do this right.

“Stay right here,” Bond ordered, resting a hand on Q’s shoulder.

“Yes, master.”

Bond went into the kitchen to retrieve the blankets and the lubricant he’d taken from his overnight kit. Before going back to the fire, he paused, allowing himself to savour the anticipation. Q was naked and bound, waiting for him, silent and obedient.

 _His_.

After a deep breath, Bond carried everything back to the hearth. Q lifted his head but said nothing. Bond set the lube on the couch and ran a hand through Q’s hair as he passed. Q shifted his weight, turning as if to watch, though the blindfold was still fixed in place.

Bond spread the blankets on the rug by the hearth. Then he took hold of Q’s bound hands and guided him onto the blankets. “Lie down, on your back, hands over your head.” Q made another quiet sound but did as Bond said. Once he was settled, Bond said, “Lift.” He slid his hands through Q’s hair, and once he could reach the knot, he untied the blindfold. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“What —” Q swallowed and clenched his jaw.

Bond waited a few seconds. When Q didn’t say anything else, Bond removed the scarf and handkerchiefs over Q’s eyes. “Good.” Bond brushed a thumb over Q’s mouth, then followed with a slow, soft kiss. “Keep them closed,” he warned before he moved to crouch by Q’s hands. Bond shook out the scarf he’d used as a blindfold and then tied one end around Q’s bindings. The other end, he tied around one leg of the couch with just enough tension for Q to feel it.

Then he leaned back against the couch, looking down the length of Q’s body. Q was tense, his breathing quick and shallow, but he wasn’t fighting. He’d given this to Bond, and Bond wanted more. He’d wanted more from the first moment Q, naked and shaking with fear, had pressed close to Bond in the hallway in Connecticut.

Q. So composed and sharp and brilliant at work, an MI6 executive despite his youth and lack of military experience. Stripped and defenceless by his own choice. For Bond.

And Bond still wanted more.

“Spread your legs.” When Q did, Bond moved beside him and dragged one fingertip over his leg. His skin was warm from the fire, muscles tense. The hair on his thigh was sparse and fine. Bond brushed down towards Q’s inner thigh and listened to his quiet gasp.

The memory of sinking into Q’s body, with nothing between them but heat and skin, threatened to break Bond’s self-control. He wanted nothing more than to pull off his clothes, push Q down, and take everything Q would let him have. But the quick gratification was nothing compared to stripping away the last of Q’s reservations until nothing was left but his submission to Bond.

“Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t open your eyes.”

Then he went to the coat hooks by the front door, to get his leather driving gloves out of his pocket.

 

~~~

 

None of this had been planned. Bond shouldn’t have touched Q — shouldn’t have even brought him out of London. They should have discussed Connecticut and compared past experiences and negotiated limits, but Bond had been operating on instinct, taking only what Q offered, waiting for him to push back.

But he didn’t.

He shivered under Bond’s gloved hands, gasped as body-warm leather skimmed over his tense muscles, and whispered, “Please” and “Don’t stop” and “More” every time Bond’s hands went still.

Bond knelt between Q’s legs and pushed them even farther apart, until Q shuddered at the strain in his muscles. With quick, sharp motions, Bond pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the couch. Touching Q’s bare skin felt like touching fire, searing through them both. Slowly, Bond curled his fingers, scratching his fingernails over Q’s inner thighs, all the way to his knees.

Q let out a sharp cry, pulling against the scarves that bound his wrists to the couch. For the first time, he opened his eyes and stared up at Bond.

“James!”

The name — not _master_ — jolted through Bond like a static charge. He scratched again, harder, and watched red lines raise up from Q’s pale skin.

Q’s breath stuttered. He arched his back, trying to lift his hips, but Bond held him down with one hand. With the other, he scratched again, and Q gasped out, “Please, master!”

 _Yes_.

Bond moved back so he could lean in between Q’s bent knees. He licked over the raised lines left by his nails. Q bit his lip, writhing against Bond’s hold.

Bond licked again, tasting sweat and heat. When he reached the inside of Q’s knee, he pressed his teeth against taut, silk-fine skin, biting slowly until Q whimpered.

“Turn over,” Bond ordered roughly. He moved out from between Q’s legs and ducked his head to lick over Q’s ribs.

Q didn’t laugh. He flinched and pulled hard against the scarves. He kicked at the blankets as he turned onto his stomach, and he started to raise up on his knees.

Bond put his hand on Q’s arse and shoved him back down again. “Patience, pet,” he said with a laugh at Q’s enthusiasm.

Q groaned and spread his legs insistently. “Master.” This time, it came out more naturally, though muffled against the folded blanket.

Bond crawled up over Q’s body. His skin was burning hot, bones sharp against Bond’s muscles. He shifted under Bond’s weight and spread his legs invitingly. Bond groaned and closed his eyes, resting his head against Q’s. Why the hell hadn’t he taken off his trousers?

Right. So he wouldn’t get distracted. Bloody stupid idea.

He slid his hands up Q’s arms to grasp his wrists. Q shivered, whispering too softly for Bond to make out his words. Bond grinned at the thought that Q, always so eloquent, had become incoherent with lust.

“Did you want something, pet?” Bond whispered before he bit the shell of Q’s ear just hard enough to make him gasp.

Instead of a sharp demand or even a request, Q just whispered, “Anything.”

Bond nipped again. “Properly.”

“Master,” Q added, voice catching.

“Better.” Bond licked over where he’d bit, and then he moved down to Q’s nape. Q bowed his head as best he could, groaning as Bond nuzzled under soft strands of hair. When Bond bit, Q pressed back against Bond’s cock.

Bond inched down Q’s body, finding a measure of self-control only when he got his hips away from the enticement of Q’s arse. He nipped his way down Q’s spine, tonguing at the shadows between his vertebrae. When Q twisted sharply, almost bucking Bond off, Bond grabbed his hips and held him in place.

As he reached Q’s arse, close to the base of his spine, Bond said, “Up on your knees, Q. Legs spread.”

Q kicked at the blankets to raise his arse into the air, struggling so hard that he moved the heavy couch an inch over the wood floor. Bond laughed, thrilled by Q’s desperation, and slid his hand down to Q’s thigh. He itched to take his hand or belt to Q’s pale skin, not just to see his mark on Q’s body, but to chip away at Q’s self-control through pain and the high of endorphins. One day, they’d discuss that as well.

For now, he pushed Q’s arse higher and dragged one finger down Q’s spine, between his cheeks, and over his entrance. Q’s body jerked in reaction. Bond cupped his hand under Q’s balls and, for the first time tonight, allowed one finger to touch Q’s cock.

Q dragged in a breath, hips shifting from side to side as he spread his legs even more. With his wrists bound to the couch, his chest was pressed to the blankets, forcing his back into a graceful arch. When Bond moved his hand away, Q whimpered, his whole body shuddering.

“Can you hold still for me, Q?” he asked softly.

“Yes. Yes, master,” Q whispered into the blanket, nodding.

Hoping that no one had ever done this for Q, Bond leaned in and licked, light and teasing, over Q’s entrance. Q gasped and twitched hard — then froze, every muscle locking tight. Bond held his breath, going just as still. Had Q liked it? Bond hadn’t done that for years. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been with a partner he could trust so completely.

When Q remained silent, Bond took a breath and did it again. Q’s whimper was muffled, his shiver almost masked by how tense he’d gone.

A third lick, slower this time, made Q groan.

The raw, uninhibited desire in the sound hit Bond like a drug. He gently pulled Q’s cheeks apart so he could focus on teasing him open. Q started to pant, making desperate little sounds that turned into a sharp cry when Bond reached between his legs to brush over his cock.

As soon as Bond moved his hand to Q’s inner thigh, Q pleaded, “Master. Please.”

Bond lifted his head. “More?”

“I don’t — Please — Yes, master. Anything.” The words came out in a rush, though Q still didn’t break his position.

Was it too much? One night, Bond would take the time to find out. He’d bind Q properly and lick him open until his begging broke down into incoherent whimpers, but not tonight. For now, he knelt up and reached for the bottle of lube on the couch.

It was a new bottle, damn the bad luck, and Bond didn’t even try to rip off the safety seal. He took his folding knife from his pocket and snapped it open to cut the plastic.

Q shivered. Arched his back. Whimpered, the sound so soft that Bond would have missed it, had he not been so laser-focused on Q.

 _The knife_ , Bond thought as he set the bottle aside. He rubbed his thumb over the cross-hatch pattern on the handle. Why would Q react to the blade? No, why would he react _positively_ to the blade, rather than flinching in fear? It wasn’t the thought of being cut — the potential pain. Q didn’t mind bites and scratches, but Bond didn’t think he was a masochist. He hadn’t tried to press into Bond’s teeth or fingernails, seeking more pain.

It was the danger. The _threat_ of being cut. Of being caught back in Connecticut. Q wanted the adrenaline rush of fear.

Holding the blade carefully, Bond touched the handle — cold metal — to Q’s hip. Q’s hands clenched into fists. His muscles trembled with tension as he fought to hold still.

“Be good, pet,” Bond warned, allowing a hint of threat to creep into his voice. He turned the knife, finding a sharp corner of the handle, and scraped over the small of his back, pressing a little harder over the thin, soft skin. Q let out a beautiful, broken whimper before he pushed his face into the blankets.

 _Next time_ , Bond promised himself. Next time, he’d ask if Q wanted to feel the point of the blade, or maybe the edge. For now, Bond dragged the handle of the knife all the way up Q’s back and watched the shudder move up Q’s body in a wave, all the way to his nape. When Bond pulled it away, Q unclenched his fists and flexed his trembling fingers. He exhaled and the tension left his body. He stretched like a cat, languid, boneless. Ready.

Bond pierced the safety seal and ripped it most of the way off. He closed the folding knife and set it on Q’s back, between his shoulderblades. “Stay still, pet. Don’t let that fall.”

Q barely nodded. “Yes, master,” he whispered, the syllables indistinct.

Bond quickly replaced the cap, snapped it open, and poured a small puddle into his hand. In Connecticut, Q had been tense, and Bond had drawn out this preparation until Q had pleaded for more. Now, the energy between them was different. Bond didn’t hesitate to push a finger inside, slow and steady, without stopping, until his hand pressed against Q’s body.

The hot, soft, tightness of Q’s body was almost too much. Bond had to stop and take a deep breath. He turned his finger, feeling the slight drag of flesh under the slick lubricant, and eased his hand back. Q’s quiet exhale carried a sense of desperate longing.

“Patience,” Bond said quietly as he slicked his finger again. This time, when he pushed inside, Q let out a long, ragged groan that broke into a sharp cry when Bond crooked his finger just right.

It was enough. Bond needed to get inside him. He pulled out his finger, cleaned his hand on the blanket, and undid his flies. He shoved his trousers and pants out of the way but didn’t undress; he wanted the contrast between his clothes and Q’s bare skin. Then he leaned back to pick up the bottle again.

Bond hissed out a breath as he slicked his own cock with rushed motions. He dropped the bottle aside and knelt up behind Q, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When Bond had planned this, he’d thought to take Q as he had in Connecticut, facing one another, with Q in his arms. Gentle. Protective.

Now, though, all he wanted was to take Q, rough and fast — to push harder, to make his surrender complete.

Bond flattened a hand on the knife, knowing how the rough cross-hatching would scratch at Q’s skin. Over Q’s soft whimper, Bond warned, “Don’t let this fall,” before he thrust forward, just hard enough to breach Q’s body.

Q’s hands clenched around the edge of the blanket. He gasped in short, sharp breaths that sounded like pleas for more.

Bond curled his fingers, nails scraping over Q’s skin. He wanted to ask if it was too much, but all that came out was a harsh, “More?”

“Please.” Q propped himself up on one elbow and turned just enough for Bond to see his profile. “Please, don’t stop.”

Bond took a breath —

“Master, _please_.”

Satisfaction tore through Bond like a brushfire. He pushed Q back down and thrust into him, hard and fast. Q gasped and clenched his hands around the blanket, bracing himself, without a hint of his safeword. He wanted more. Needed more. They both did.

Bond obliged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is _not_ abandoned!
> 
> I have a deadline of the end of February for my next book, and that needs to be my priority. Once I'm finished, I'll be getting back to this and Human Recalibration.
> 
> For updates, stop by my Tumblr: http://kryptaria.tumblr.com
> 
> Thanks!


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